


Go and Set Europe Ablaze

by JehanetteProuvaire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, French Resistance, I don't know I'm making this up as I go, World War II, but Molly's pretty badass, if you want Sherlock you may wait a bit, mostly about Molly, possible johnlock later on?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-08-04 21:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16354952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanetteProuvaire/pseuds/JehanetteProuvaire
Summary: Molly Hooper, code name Tulip, has been sent by the SOE into Europe to retrieve one of their spies. Stranded in occupied France, she must fight to reach Hemlock, relying only on her own intelligence and the help of a French farmer who refuses to let her go such a dangerous road alone.





	1. Setting Fires

His hand was over Molly’s mouth even before she woke. He knew, somehow. Her body had tensed, perhaps, or she had drawn in a deep breath that had woken him. Perhaps he had already been awake, watching her sleep. That was something husbands did, wasn’t it?

But he wasn’t her husband. She had told herself when she first arrived at his house that she wouldn’t let herself forget that, but now, with his hand pressed over her mouth and his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist, it was all too easy to feel safe, as though she belonged right beside him.

It should have scared her. It would have, six months ago. Now she only felt protected.

Molly didn’t think about any of this when she woke. It was in the back of her mind, as it always was. She couldn’t afford to forget anything these days.

His hand was over Molly’s mouth before she even woke, and his palm muffled her scream.

They lay there for a while afterward, their bodies nestled together, his hand resting over her mouth. She could have pulled away at any moment, but the fact that she knew that kept her still. If she had been in Paris -- in any large city, really -- or sleeping out in the open, a scream could have killed her. There would be suspicious neighbors who might report any odd behavior, especially from a woman who had only just arrived, and a scream from a seemingly empty barn might as well be a death sentence.

Molly turned her head ever so slightly and Christophe, the man who watched her sleep without being her husband, drew his hand away. He drew his whole body away, and for a moment Molly ached for him to nestle against her once more.

She tried to ignore that feeling. It wasn’t wise. It wasn’t safe.

Christophe sighed, as though about to fall asleep, but then asked, “Are you all right, Margot?”

Molly nodded. They were close enough together that he could no doubt see her despite the darkness.

“Just another dream?”

She nodded again.

Christophe hesitated, then asked, “Did you want to tell me about it at all?”

She could, she knew. She could roll onto her side and nestle her head against his shoulder. She had never thought she would enjoy the smell of a man who spent his whole day working on a farm, but she did now. Even after he bathed, she caught the lingering scent of sweat and sun on his skin, and she had long ago given up the battle against smiling.

She could tell him. She could trust him. He would understand her dreams of crashing airplanes and tortured radio operators, of the Gestapo swarming his farm and finding out that her papers were utterly false, that she was not Marguerite Savatier at all but an SOE agent who’d been hopefully lost. He’d probably had those dreams as well, though they more than likely ended with him before a firing squad than her.

Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe he was just as worried for her safety as she was. It was the best explanation for why he had allowed her to stay here for so long.

What else could it be? Love?

“I’m all right,” she said, pulling the blanket up about her shoulders. Even though the day had been warm, the early hours of the morning always had a chill to them.

Christophe didn’t press her. He only shifted a little on his side of the bed. When his hand brushed against Molly’s back, it could easily have been an accident. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to believe it was.

* * *

Molly Hooper had grown up in the shadow of the Great War. Born just before her father left for the front, her earliest memories were of the little house in Northamptonshire, playing in the garden as Mum waited for letters. Dad had come back haunted by what he had seen, and though he always tried to hide the worst of it from his daughter, Molly remembered being woken by his screams as he relived some part of the war. Shell shock, Mum had called it. Dad never said a word about it. Such things weren’t for little girls was all he would tell her.

And now his little girl was caught up in a war of her own.

Molly had joked that her parents had always wanted to be able to send her to France. Now, as she sat up and rubbed at her bleary eyes, that joke seemed as bitter as ever. More so, since she hadn’t anyone about to share it with.

Well, there was Christophe, of course, but he was a different matter altogether. She couldn’t easily joke with him.

Christophe was already up and about. Molly cursed herself for sleeping in -- she couldn’t afford to get soft -- and hurried out of bed. She always slept in a fresh set of clothes, so even though she looked a bit rumpled, she was clean enough to be presentable. She only had to put her hair in a fresh braid to be ready for the day.

It was later than she had thought. Christophe was already out of the house, though he had left some breakfast for her by the stove. Toast and a single egg, and though it was cold, she devoured it like a starving woman. Before she’d reached his house, she had been nearly starving, and she still remembered the sharp pangs of hunger she had woken to. She’d never told him about that, but he might well have seen it on her face, for he always gave her a larger portion than he took at every meal.

It was kind of him to save a egg, now that she no longer looked like she would faint dead away at any moment. He could easily have gotten six francs for it.

Molly took just enough time to wash the plate before ducking out the back door. Christophe was right where she had expected him, crawling about on his hands and knees as he hunted for weeds among his vegetables. Without a word, Molly joined him, not caring that she got dirt on the hem of her skirt. She was lucky there wasn’t any blood on it.

“I’ll have to go into town today,” Christophe said after a moment. Molly didn’t look up at him. She was too busy trying to coax out the root of a weed using nothing but her fingers. “People will be eager for eggs.”

People were always eager for eggs. The root snapped in Molly’s hand, and she tossed the plant aside to a nearby wandering chicken. The bird made quick work of it, and Molly started widening the hole to see whether she could get to the rest of the root. If she could dig it out, it would be one less weed for them to hunt for later on.

If she could take her time digging it out, it would mean Christophe wouldn’t see the fear that flashed across her face at the thought of him going into town.

“I thought I ought to let you know,” he went on, “so you didn’t think I’d left you. I wouldn’t want you to worry.”

It was kind of him to do so. He was full of such small kindnesses. Molly never knew how to react to them. “Thank you,” she said, sitting back on her heels. “Will you need any help with the delivery?”

“I’ll be all right,” he said. “I’ve been making deliveries since well before you came here. This one shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary.”

Shouldn’t be, but there was always the chance that it would, and Molly had no wish for him to take that chance. He could always use a second pair of eyes, or the hands of somehow who knew how to treat a wound. She was no doctor, but she knew well enough how to clean and bandage a wound, and if she had even makeshift tools, she could apply stitches. If it came to it, she could drive him to safety, too.

She sometimes thought she should have been a nurse or an ambulance driver. At least then she would be doing some good.

She’d made all those arguments to Christophe before, and every time, he had turned down her offer of help. The people he made deliveries to knew him, he said. They’d never turn on him, much less turn him in. If he was hurt, he knew who to go to. There was a doctor in town who could treat him without asking any of the wrong questions.

Arguing those points, Molly knew, would be useless. Still, she had to try something.

“I want to help you,” she said. “I’m here for a reason.”

“You’re here because I wanted you safe.” Molly glanced over her shoulder to find Christophe already looking at her. How long had he been doing that? “I know that isn’t what you meant, but I wouldn’t have asked you to stay here if I hadn’t wanted to protect you.”

It was what all girls were supposed to want, wasn’t it? Ten years ago, Molly would have been over the moon at the notion that a man wanted to protect her. Christophe might not look precisely like a knight from a fairy tale, but he wasn’t half-bad, in his own way. The sun brought out a golden glow to his skin, and his smile brought out friendly crinkles around his blue eyes. He was the sort of man she wouldn’t mind marrying, if marry she had to, but recognizing that was bittersweet at best. She wasn’t meant to stay here. At some point, she would have to move on. Hemlock was waiting for her.

“I’m not the sort of woman you have to protect,” she began, but Christophe cut her off.

“I don’t have to. I want to.”

“But when you won’t let me help, there’s no difference, is there? I’m still here, playing at being your wife, because you won’t have me leave your house.”

“It isn’t only my choice,” Christophe said. “It’s just as much yours.”

Molly fell silent, unable to find the words to argue with him. He was right: she could have left the house whenever she pleased. He wouldn’t have kept her. If she’d had even the slightest suspicion he might, she would have fled at once, whether or not she was strong enough to travel. She certainly wouldn’t have lain in bed beside him, night after night, or let him hold her close and muffle any sounds she made. Ten years ago, even a man she loved couldn’t have done that to her without making her panic.

Ten years ago, she had been a very different woman.

“I came here for a purpose,” she said, “and that purpose was to set Europe ablaze. I think I’ve left it long enough. If you won’t bring me along with you, I’ll stay a few days longer before setting off on my own.”

Christophe didn’t look dismayed, but he did look downhearted. “Will we say good-bye, then, Margot?”

She had hoped that might change his mind. It hadn’t been a threat -- she did mean to move on before the weather got too cold for her to travel -- but it might have given him an incentive to bring her along if he thought he could keep her a while longer. “I suppose we will,” she said. “I’ll leave on Monday. You can pray for a safe journey for me.”

That brought a smile back to his face, faint though it was. “Before you go, I suppose I ought to show you the town. Let’s get washed up, and you can help me load up the eggs. I trust you not to break them by now.”


	2. An Ounce of Prevention is Never Enough

Christophe’s car was a decent car, all things considered. It wasn’t exactly the height of comfort, but it was enough to get them into town, even with petrol rations. “I always make sure to save up enough,” he told her on the bumpy ride, raising his voice to be heard over the growl of the engine. “You never know when you need to make a quick escape.”

Something -- she wasn’t sure what -- had improved his humor. He was cheerful now, smiling broadly as he wrestled with the steering wheel. Molly knew he had made this trip many times before, but all the same, she found herself braced against the door, silently praying that she would get back to his house alive. (She prayed for the eggs, too. There were only a handful, but that was still considerable money for him if they weren’t smashed.) Was this his way of trying to convince her it was too dangerous for her to leave his house? If so, she would have to tell him about how she had parachuted into the French countryside.

They reached the town both alive and in one piece, and Christophe checked the bundle that held the eggs. “All there,” he said, and pressed the bundle into her hands. “It was a good idea to bring you along after all. No one will look twice at a mother and baby.”

It did look rather like a baby, as long as no one looked too closely. Molly accepted the bundle awkwardly, cradling it against her breast.

Christophe smiled. “Never held a baby, have you?”

Not since Cecelia’s had caught the measles and died of it. “I was an only child.”

“And no child of your own? No husband?”

Molly did her best to laugh. “A husband wouldn’t have let me put myself in so much danger.”

“You’d have found a way to come, if you believed in what you were doing.” Christophe had been looking at her, but now he turned his attention outside the windshield, watching the street before them. Molly watched as well, trying to see some danger lurking in the men and women passing by. There weren’t many, but perhaps this was a quiet town. Perhaps it had always been a quiet town. Quiet didn’t necessarily mean the Germans were about.

It didn’t necessarily mean they were safe, either.

“Or you could be a widow, running off to fight in the war that killed your husband. I know a few women who’ve done that.”

“And left my child at home alone?”

“You’re right. You hardly seem the type.” Before Molly could try to figure out what type she was, at least in his eyes, he had opened his car door and was out. She reached for her own, but he gestured for her to stay put.

Molly frowned. This couldn’t be his usual method of working, to leave the eggs in the car while we met up with his buyer. Someone could steal them, or steal the car, or…

Christophe walked around to her side and opened the door for her. Christ. She really needed to pay better attention or they would both wind up in a great deal of trouble.

“I can’t imagine it’s easy carrying a baby and opening a car door,” he said, offering her a hand. She took it, and he easily pulled her out of the car. “Besides, an attentive husband always ought to look after his wife.”

Molly hovered by his side as they walked down the street. “Does whoever you’ll meet know you have a wife?”

“He doesn’t know I don’t,” Christophe said. “He won’t ask any suspicious questions, if that’s what worries you. Just be sweet and loving with our little…”

“Jean,” Molly said. It didn’t come entirely off the top of her head. She didn’t know any specific Jean, but it was a common enough name, and it put her in mind of a doctor she’d heard about. There wasn’t much of a chance she would meet him, but if they both survived the war, she would have to seek him out. From all she had heard, he was a hero.

“Jean-Marie,” Christophe said with a little smile. “Like my brother.”

She hadn’t known he had a brother, nor had she known he could smile the way he was now. He had eyes only for her and their little egg-baby. He really could be a father someday, if he wanted to. If he survived the war.

He was older than she, wasn’t he? If not, he was very close to her age. Sometime, before she left, she would have to ask him about his brother, and about why he hadn’t married.

For now, she gazed down at Jean-Marie, imagining him not just a bundle of eggs but a sleeping baby, one she had to be careful of because he would squall if she held him just the wrong way. He was a baby who would wake her in the middle of the night for milk but coo when he had finished drinking, looking up at her with heavy, sleepy eyes as she settled him back down to sleep. He would grow, and someday learn to walk and talk, and then he would help out on the farm (for in this world where Jean-Marie lived, she really was married to Christophe), and the three of them would all eat dinner as a family.

That notion did not appeal to her at all.

It was a relief when Christophe led her into a cobbler’s shop and to the back. “Good morning, Henri,” he said. “Business going well?”

“As well as can be expected, these days.” The cobbler was an older man, with a few brown streaks left in his gray hair. He adjusted his glasses as he peered up at them, but something about the motion struck Molly as being contrived. He could no doubt see just as well as either of them. “Why, Christophe! That can’t be you! And your darling Marie, do sit down, my dear.” He patted the bench beside him, and Molly said.

“I’m Margot,” she said, glancing up at Christophe, who only shrugged.

“All young women are Marie when you reach my age,” Henri said. “I’ve no doubt I’ll call your little one Jean as soon as he’s up and walking, no matter what you’ve called him.” He beamed down at the egg baby. “What is it you called him again?”

“Jean,” Molly replied, unable to suppress a smile.

“Kind of you to take pity on an old man,” Henri said. He held out his arms. “May I?” Molly handed over the bundle, and Henri cooed over it before getting unsteadily to his feet. “I think I have those boots you were looking for, Christophe, and just in time, too. You wouldn’t want Marie’s toes to freeze this winter.”

“Thank you,” Christophe said. “May we see them?”

Henri nodded. “They’re in the back.”

He led them into the back of the shop, and Christophe closed the door behind them. Quick as a flash, Henri undid all the wrappings on the egg baby, and the half-dozen eggs rolled out. Molly hadn’t thought he would be able to catch them, but it wasn’t only his eyesight he had lied about. His hands darted all about, capturing the eggs and securing them in a little box, which he closed and stuffed under the table.

“I’ve got another form of payment for you this time,” he said in a low voice. Not once did he make a move as though to pay them, however. He only stared at them, eyes darting from Christophe to Molly and back again.

“I trust her,” Christophe said.

Henri nodded sharply and returned to the table, fussing about with the boxes and tools beneath. “Never said you shouldn’t, my boy,” he muttered, but he did angle his body so Molly couldn’t see what he pulled out. Whatever it was, he wrapped it up in the swaddling clothes and handed Molly her false baby back. Jean-Marie was heavier than he had been, and it took her a moment to adjust her arms to his new weight.

“You look after that child now,” he said, frowing at both of them. “It’d be a shame if anything happened to it.”

“That it would,” Christophe agreed.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries on the way out. Molly spent her time fussing over her baby, rocking him and humming under her breath. At the door, Henri apologized for the boots not fitting, and Christophe assured him it would be all right. There was still plenty of time before winter, and he would surely find another pair by then.

“Or perhaps we’ll have saved up enough to afford some,” Molly said. “I’d like a pair with tulips on them, and those will be easier made than found.”

Henri’s eyes widened, and for a moment he looked as though he was about to say something. Instead, he merely nodded and smiled at her. “You’ll want to go talk to the baker sometime, Marie. I’ve never seen such a passion for flowers as his cousin has. He grows the prettiest monkshood you’ve ever seen.”

Molly’s breath didn’t catch in her throat, nor did the ground spin beneath her feet. She did however, feel her heart beat faster, and it was only her caution which kept her from crushing Jean-Marie against her chest. “I believe he and I would have a great deal to talk about,” she said. “What is his cousin’s name?”

“Jean,” Henri said, with a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t you know that all young men are named Jean?”

Molly could have kissed him. She could have kissed anyone just then. She bade Henri good-bye, leaned against Christophe once more, and they set off down the street. 

“You’ll want to go to the bakery?” he asked.

“We could always use a little more bread,” she said. “Let’s at least see if they have any left. Ours is getting stale.” 

He didn’t have to remind her that it was a blessing to have even that stale bread, just as it was a blessing he could smuggle his eggs to Henri rather than selling them at the market price. He only had to nod, which he did, and say that it would hardly hurt to look, even if they waited to buy anything until a few more days had passed.

He had only started to say that when they drew close to the bakery and had to stop. Two men were being led out, both at gunpoint, by German soldiers. Molly recognized neither, but she could guess that the frightened one who kept glancing about was Monkshood. She’d been given the code names of agents who could shelter her on her journey, though she hadn’t been told precisely where they were, and it was awful to encounter one of them this way.

The other man must be the baker, Molly realized dully. Of course he would be arrested too, for aiding a British spy. She pulled Jean-Marie closer to her, as though to shield his gaze, but she really wanted to hold onto the false baby as closely as she could. Whatever was in that bundle was something entrusted to her.

“Let’s go home,” Christophe murmured. “You’ll want to rest.”

Molly nodded faintly and allowed Christophe to guide her to the car. Neither said a word the whole drive home.


	3. No Atheists in Foxholes

As far as Molly was concerned, she had been brought up proper. Mum and Dad may never have forced her to believe in anything she didn’t want to believe in, but they had brought her to church every Sunday. She’d been brought up a good Anglican girl, and even if she had stopped being the praying sort around the time she was seventeen and trying to decide whether she ought to go to university or marry one of the boys from the factory, she had still considered herself a good Anglican girl.

As Marguerite Savatier, she had to be a good Catholic woman. She hadn’t followed Christophe to church, but only because it might be too dangerous to show her face there. If someone had come in and seen her, if they had begun to ask the wrong sorts of questions, everything might well have been over.

Everything might well be over now. Had Monkshood seen her? Would he tell what he had seen? There was no doubt he would be tortured, and she didn’t know whether he could stand up to torture.

In the end, no one could. That was why no one knew any names. It would be harder for the Germans to track down a mysterious Tulip than a Molly Hooper or a Marguerite Savatier.

Unless the Germans had seen the mysterious Tulip.

Had they seen her? She was almost certain one of them had been looking right at her face. Maybe he would connect her to the name when Monkshood gave it up, and connecting a code name to not only a face but a place would spell her doom. She had to leave as soon as possible.

Christophe’s knuckles were white the whole drive home. Molly didn’t dare to open the bundle, nor did she dare to let go of it. It was something for her to protect, and as long as she had something to take care of, she didn’t have to worry about herself.

She still had to worry about Hemlock. She had spent far too long neglecting him.

As soon as they were back home, Christophe hurried out of the car and inside. Molly followed, clutching her false baby under one arm. It didn’t matter if anyone saw her now. She would be on her way soon enough, and anyone searching for her would find only an empty half of a bed. Anyone searching for Margot Dupont would only find her husband.

And then they would question him, and Molly felt sick at the thought. She couldn’t just abandon him, but neither could she keep on abandoning her mission. She really should have been a nurse. There wouldn’t be any danger there.

The thought didn’t make her want to laugh, as it had when she had joked about it back in England. It made her feel even sicker than before.

As soon as she made it inside, she saw Christophe standing in the middle of the floor, his head bent over a rosary, his lips moving soundlessly. Molly knew she ought to stop and wait for him to finish, out of respect, but there was simply no time. She tossed the bundle onto the table, where it landed with a heavy thud, and hurried to the bedroom.

By the time Christophe had finished praying and reached her, she was already dressed in traveling clothes and had packed the bag she’d been keeping under the bed. Underthings, socks, a spare shirt and skirt, a coat… all things which had belonged to Christophe’s sister, all things which might prove useful on the move. There was enough room left for money and food, if Christophe would give her some, but even if he wouldn’t she could manage. She had stolen food before, and she could do so again. This time her conscience wouldn’t trouble her so about it.

“You don’t have to go,” Christophe said.

Molly closed the bag. “I should have gone long ago.” People likely thought she was dead by now. Would they have sent someone out in her place, or would they just give up on the whole thing as a bad job, washing their hands like Pilate? She knew what she would do in their place. It was no question, really. Hemlock was the best agent they had, even if he was all but impossible to work with. A mission like the one he’d been given, where he could work alone, was ideal for him. If he hadn’t died already, he would be able to get out himself. For all she knew, he’d given up on rescue entirely and had made it back to London by now.

There was no question of what she would do. She still had to go after him.

“Margot --”

“I’ve stayed too long.” She got to her feet. “I told you, didn’t I? I came here for a reason.”

“And you never told me what that reason was.”

Of course she hadn’t. Did he think she was an idiot?

One look in his eyes told her he didn’t. She couldn’t have said exactly what he thought of her, but she did know he thought her worthy of respect. Maybe even -- dare she say it? -- love.

It was certainly an expression she’d never seen Hemlock’s eyes.

But Hemlock had asked for her specifically to come after him. He’d wanted her, not just Tulip but Molly Hooper. That was what she’d been told, and she had no reason to believe the Wolf was a liar.

“You know I’m not from France, right?” She was treading into dangerous territory here. One false step and she could ruin everything. 

“I’d guessed,” Christophe said. “Your papers and accent are good, but you were so secretive when you arrived. It was a little suspicious.” He was not quite blocking the door, but Molly knew he could stop her from leaving if he so chose. He wouldn’t, of course. She could trust him that much, or hoped that she could. He had kept her safe and alive for weeks now. He wouldn’t turn on her so quickly.

“It’s best I’m on my way, then,” she said. “I must have looked suspicious in town.”

“Not at all,” Christophe said, “except for asking about tulips. That was rather odd, but Henri is a man used to the rather odd.”

Henri was a man involved with the resistance, he meant, and if Christophe was being paid in something other than money, that surely meant he was involved too in some way. How, Molly didn’t know, and she didn’t intend to linger and find out.

“But no one will turn you in for being odd,” Christophe said. “We aren’t like that out here. We want a quiet life, and no one will be quiet if they arrest my wife.”

“What was quiet about arresting the baker’s cousin?” Molly asked. “No one knew he had a cousin, did they?”

Christophe didn’t flinch, but she did see a moment’s hesitation in his eyes. It was enough.

“I know him,” she said, “or at least I knew about him, and he knows about me. If they torture him, he’ll mention my name, and if one of them decides that name belongs to the face he saw staring in the street, we’ll both be in danger. I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me, but I can’t put you in any further danger.”

“I’m in danger from my own work,” Christophe said.

“I know it was your choice to let me stay,” Molly began, but Christophe shook his head.

“Even before you arrived, Margot, I was in danger. You think it’s safe to sell eggs to the black market? If anyone saw me stashing francs or reichsmarks away, I’d look suspicious. This isn’t the sort of house owned by a man who keeps a box of money under his bed.”

He was right. It was a good house, but from the moment Molly arrived, she had known he put everything he had into keeping it in order. He did all the handiwork himself, and the only help Molly had seen him accept was her own. She had thought at first it was because he didn’t want anyone to find her there, and while that might have been part of his reasoning, she had soon realized that he was used to work on his own. He never hired help from the town because he could rarely afford it. 

“Spending them would be just as suspect,” Christophe went on. “For as long as anyone can remember, this farm’s done just enough to keep anyone living on it alive and no more. I have enough food for a few to eat and a little extra to sell in town, but not enough to suddenly have a great deal of money to spend. Everyone would be able to tell where I had gotten it. We may look out for one another around here, but having money is different from sheltering a stranger. It would only be a matter of time before someone started to envy me, and envy can do ugly things.”

Molly was all too aware of that. She’d been envious herself when she was younger, and she was glad she’d outgrown that now. “Why are you telling me all this now?” It couldn’t be because he had only just now begun to trust her. Surely he had trusted her from the moment he let her into his bed.

“I’m trying to explain the danger I’ve been in,” he said. “I suppose I’m taking a roundabout path, and I don’t see why I should. I trust you.” Even so, he took a deep breath before going on. I’ve been passing the money on to the Maquis. They have more of a use for it than I, and I’ve no doubt I’m funding a good cause. If I can put a little food in the belly of a man fighting for our freedom, I’ve done a good day’s work.”

And if anyone found out, not only would he be in danger, but everyone he worked with would be as well. Every connection he had made would lead to another, and another. It would not bring the resistance to its knees, but it would be enough to hurt it. It would be like setting fire to a spiderweb, and she was yet another spark added to the mix.

“I have something for you, if you’re determined to go,” Christophe said. He held out his hand, and Molly took it, allowing him to lead her downstairs.

For a split second, she thought she might find the kitchen filled with German soldiers. She knew as soon as the thought struck her that it was a ridiculous notion, but it wasn’t one that would easily leave. Not until she saw the completely empty kitchen did she allow herself to relax.

(It was a guilty sort of relaxation. She shouldn’t have doubted Christophe.)

“Did you always know I was going to leave?” Molly asked.

“Not until today.” Christophe released her hand, and Molly hoped drawing it close to her chest would hide the way his touch lingered on her skin. It was foolishness, nothing more, better suited to a woman half her age than one who would be headed further east. “I suppose I’d thought it possible, but I hadn’t wanted to believe it might happen soon. I didn’t want you to leave until things were a little safer, at least.” He maid for the kitchen table but had only just picked up the envelope when he paused. “You will go somewhere safe, won’t you?”

She was headed for Germany, the least safe place in the world. Thank God Hitler had no particular hatred for Anglicans, though that wasn’t likely to save her.

“I will,” she said, and Christophe smiled. She didn’t feel bad about lying. No matter what happened, he was unlikely to ever see her again, so it was better to let him think she would be all right. Margot Savatier would vanish regardless of whether Molly Hooper lived or died, and Christophe would surely be happier imagining her safely back in England than buried in some unmarked grave.

“Then here.” He handed her the envelope. “I had meant to give it to you no matter your answer, but I’ll sleep easier now.”

She would too, she realized as she opened the envelope. It was filled with money, both francs and reichsmarks, and while it wasn’t much, it would easily be enough to keep her clothed and fed for a while. “Thank you,” she said.

“There’s more.” From beneath the table, he drew out a hastily wrapped parcel. Molly opened it to find a winter coat and gloves. Both were too large for her, but they were sturdily made and would keep her warm. She wondered whether he suspected she had not been entirely truthful, but that hardly mattered. She bumdled everything quickly into her pack, and by the time she stopped, Christophe stood beside her.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Molly said. “You’ve been far too kind.”

“No more so than you deserve.” He leaned forward a moment, as though to kiss her, then drew back. “If you should ever need hope -- but not until then -- check the coat’s left pocket. There is a gift there for you.”


	4. Beauty and Artifice

Money wasn’t the only useful thing a woman could have. It wasn’t even the most useful. The most useful thing a woman could have was a pretty face.

Molly had never been beautiful. She’d known that even before a certain man had done his best to make her all too aware of that fact. (Not outright, oh no. He would never have bothered to tell her she was plain. He only looked down on her the same way he looked down on everyone else, but for some reason it stung worse for her than it did for the rest of the ladies in the SOE, and Molly knew why. Her heart was a fickle, blasted thing. It would have to be to fall for him.) There was a reason she was still Miss Molly Hooper rather than Mrs. Molly Whomever. She wasn’t pretty enough to attract any man’s eye, and even if she were, she was far from the domestic goddess her mother had said any man might wish. Her room at home was cluttered with books and dust, and her cooking skills were limitd to whatever was most likely to keep her alive.

She thought about this now idly, as she scurried eastward through France, doing her best to stay away from the sounds of battle. If she had been just a little prettier, she might be in England now, with two or three children and a husband off at the front, vaguely dissatisfied with her lot in life but unable to explain why.

Or, if she had been just a little prettier, she might have been able to enchant some young man into helping her along her journey. She knew a few agents who used their charms and beauty to get what they wanted out of soldiers on their assignments, and while she didn’t envy them, she didn’t feel particularly scornful of them either. Everyone did what they had to do. There wasn’t much use these days in complaining about it. The only thing to do was to take a deep breath, push on, and think of England.

Molly was thinking of England, at least until the sight of a young woman made her realize just how lucky she was. The woman -- perhaps no more than a girl -- lay by the side of the road, eyes wide, legs spread apart, shirt torn right off her chest. She was dead, and there was no telling by whose hand, but Molly couldn’t deny that the girl was very pretty.

If she had been prettier, Molly might have wound up just like her.

The girl hadn’t been dead for long. Molly couldn’t smell any rot on her, and rigor mortis hadn’t begun to set it. (She lifted an arm to check. She was all but immune now to the horrors of corpses.) That meant her murderer was likely nearby. It would be best if Molly were to move on quickly.

Still, she lingered, at least for a moment. Had she been able to bring a shovel with her, she would have tried to bury the girl, but a shovel would have been only one more tool for her to lug around. Molly considered herself strong, or at least strong enough, but she wasn’t eager to add more weight to her already heavy pack. The most she could do for the girl was close her eyes, say a little prayer, and hurry on.

Molly wished she could remember any prayers for the dead. The most she could do was murmur a bit of a psalm and hope the girl didn’t mind that her body was being touched by a stranger.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

Another stranger, rather. Molly couldn’t imagine anyone who had known the girl tearing her shirt open thus and strangling her. A cool, clinical part of her mind noted the bruises about her neck. They were thick, the size of a man’s fingers. No doubt he had crushed her trachea.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…”

Had she skipped a line? Was she about to? She couldn’t tell. She only wanted to finish this.

“Though I walk through the valley --- the shadow of the valley of death, I shall fear no evil, for you are with me.”

No one was with her now. Certainly no one was with her who cared enough to stop Molly from opening her purse and seeing the identification papers still there. No hand, mortal or divine, stopped Molly as she pulled out the papers and glanced over them.

The girl -- Jeanne Bordeaux -- had been older than she looked. She was only five years younger than Molly. Doubly lucky, then, to be pretty and to look young.

Poor, lucky Jeanne.

Molly stuffed the papers into her bag. Marguerite Savatier was still useful, but there might come a time when it was good to have another name, just in case. Jeanne Bordeaux was a plain name, easy to remember. It would serve her well for a false one.

“Sorry,” she murmured, hurrying away. No one was about to hear her, or so she hoped. If anyone did… if she’d been seen stealing from a dead woman…

Molly broke into a run.

* * *

She traveled as cautiously as she could, hunting down abandoned barns and empty homes to sleep in. Even when she could put a roof over her head, she slept lightly, eyes fluttering open at the slightest noise. She lingered just long enough to eat a bit of breakfast -- if she had anything to eat -- before moving on.

Hemlock was waiting for her, but even more than that, the Germans were hunting her. They might not hunt her specifically, but they would hunt for anyone out of place. A young woman bearing two sets of papers was certainly out of place, especially if she slipped up and began speaking English, or even English-accented French.

Molly started talking to herself as she traveled. She had to keep her tongue sharp. She had to, if at all possible, begin thinking in French as well.

Sometimes she wondered why they hadn’t chosen someone else to go after Hemlock. Wisteria, maybe, or Mandrake. Then she would remember what the Wolf had told her, and her heart would beat so fast it felt like it was about to shoot out of her chest.

He’d wanted her, had requested her by name, not only as Tulip but also as Miss Hooper. Maybe it was only because he had known she couldn’t deny him anything, but he had wanted her to come after him and arrange his transport back to England. How could she possibly have refused?

She could have ignored that blasted, fickle heart of hers, for one thing.

* * *

The air was getting colder. Molly had never liked winter, even in the best of times, but now that she was on the road it grew worse. When she dared to sleep outside, it was only ever for a few hours at a time before she was on her feet again and moving to avoid hypothermia. She used Christophe’s coat as a blanket but hadn’t yet reached into the left pocket. She hadn’t lost all hope yet. Whatever was there, she would save.

At least there was no frost. It was bad enough waking with a chilly nose. She didn’t want to find bits of ice tangled in her hair.

She ought to be away by now. She ought to have traveled faster.

Traveling faster did little more than make her hungrier. Rather than whatever mystery was small enough to fit in a coat pocket without being seen, Christophe should have given her a basket of food.

When she saw a cottage with smoking coming from its chimney, Molly could hardly resist slipping forward to have a closer look.

She was, at least, able to resist knocking on the door outright. There was no way to know who might be inside. It might even be a trap, set up to lure incautious travelers such as herself. She walked as calmly as she could, as though she might simply pass it by, but on a path that would take her just past it. Her steps grew slower, but no one came running out the door to either arrest her or frighten her away. (No one came running out the door to welcome her, either.) When she felt sufficiently bold, she hurried right up to one of the windows and peered in.

There was a family inside, or what Molly took to be a family. A man close to her age sat by the fire, toasting thin slices of bread while a fair-haired woman cradled a baby in her arms. It definitely was a baby, not merely eggs or some mystery wrapped in a blanket. Molly could see its arms and legs willing about as the woman rocked it. They looked perfectly innocent, a picture of domestic bliss.

It could still be a trap. 

A little head poked up just before Molly could decide whether to knock at the door or move on. It belonged to a boy, one who couldn’t have been any more than five, and his brown eyes met Molly’s. For a moment, they did nothing more than stare at one another, but then the boy opened his mouth and shrieked.

Molly stumbled back, tripping over her foot and landing hard on her backside. A moment later, she was on her feet again, already running, but she stopped when she heard a man’s voice call after her.

“Wait! It’s all right! You can come back.”

Molly wasn’t about to turn on her heel and race back to the house, but she did look over her shoulder. It was the man from the fire, the one toasting the bread, and at the thought of the bread, her stomach growled. “How do I know I can trust you?” she called back.

“The angelic face of my son wasn’t enough?” The man laughed, but it was soon cut off. These weren’t years made for laughing. “I don’t have any love for foreigners taking over my country. Is that enough for you?”

Molly took a small step toward the house. “Anyone could say that.”

“Anyone could say anything these days. Will you trust me or not?”

She could fight him, if she had to. Unless he had a gun. Unless he cut her throat in her sleep. She would leave before nightfall, she decided, but after she’d had a bite to eat. It would feel wonderful to eat something she hadn’t had to hunt or steal.

She took a few more steps toward the house. She was very hungry, after all. “You have a lovely garden,” she said. “Do you ever grow tulips?”

“Tulips?” The man frowned. “Never.”

There was no flash of recognition in his eyes, nothing to show he was either a member of the resistance or was hunting them down. He could still be either one, but he hadn’t noticed her code name. That was enough to convince Molly, and she went right to the door, which the man opened as she approached.

“Would you stay for a little while?” he asked, ushering her inside. “Not long. Only enough that you don’t have to be outside all night.”

“Thank you,” Molly said. She clung to her pack. 

Whether the man guessed it was all she had in the world or not, he didn’t reach for it. He only gestured to the couch where the fair-haired woman sat, and Molly joined her, setting her pack by her feet. Almost at once, the little boy was at it, starting to open it.

“Michel Bordeaux!” the woman snapped, kicking at him. “You know better!”

The boy leapt away, sticking his tongue out at her, and scurried to hide behind the man’s legs. The woman turned her attention back to the fussing infant, muttering in annoyance about children who wouldn’t mind their elders.

Molly tried to ignore the lingering feeling she ought to hold her tongue. “Bordeaux?” she repeated. “Do you know a Jeanne Bordeaux?”

The woman went very still. From across the room, in a voice like the low roll of thunder, the man asked, “How do you know my sister?”


	5. A Great and Terrible Sorrow

Molly swallowed hard. “Jeanne was your sister?”

“Was,” the man echoed, and he slumped against the wall. “She’s dead, then?”

All the thunder had gone out of him. He looked at least ten years older, and if she hadn’t been so hungry and tired, Molly would have pitied him.

Hunger and weariness had nothing at all to do with it. She did pity him, and was half-tempted to get to her feet and set a hand on his shoulder to console him. The lurking anger in his eyes kept her still, and she only nodded.

“How?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I found her sometime after it had happened.” Not long after, but he didn’t have to know that. “She was lying by the side of the road. She looked…” Dared she tell him? Even if she didn’t, he would likely have his own suspicions. He would want to find her regardless. It was what older brothers did, wasn’t it? She had never had one -- something her friends had told her she was lucky for -- but it was what she had always imagined they would do. It was almost certainly what he would do.

But even if she was wrong, even if she didn’t tell him and he didn’t go out to look for Jeanne, he would surely still have his own suspicions. What else happened to a young woman who went out alone, here or anywhere else? Molly knew she was lucky she hadn’t met the same fate.

The man watched her still, waiting for an answer. The young woman -- his wife, probably -- watched as well, though there was less danger in her gaze. She looked, at worst, curious, though there could be danger in curiosity as well. No one ever really knew what could be lurking behind a woman’s eyes, especially when that woman had needed to keep her thoughts locked away for her own good.

She would have to say something. “She looked as though she had been murdered,” she said. “Her throat was covered in bruises, as though…”

The look on his face. Molly could hardly bring herself to go on. How was it that looking at a dead body or even learning how to kill could be so much easier than talking to a stranger? If she had feared being in his house, that might explain it somewhat, but it wasn’t that at all. It was the look on his face, as though the death of his sister would kill him as well. If that was what having a brother was like, no one had ever mentioned it to Molly. Somehow it seemed harder to bear than the thought of an older brother being a pest or a torment. She didn’t know what she would have done had someone loved her so much.

It was that thought which forced her to go on. He deserved to know, not to wallow in agony, even for a few minutes. Such strong love deserved an answer. If anyone knew that, she certainly did.

“Someone had strangled her,” she forced herself to say. “He left her for dead afterward.”

She waited for the next question: how did she know it had been a man? It was an obvious guess under any circumstances, but Jeanne’s brother might want proof, or at least more proof than she could offer just by the description she had given. She couldn’t blame him. If she’d had an older brother, she would have wanted him to ask for proof, too.

But that wasn’t his question. He drew in a breath, Molly tensed, and he asked, “How did you know her name?”

She should have known. She should have prepared. It was a damn good thing she could lie on her feet. The Wolf had taken care to hone that skill in every man and woman he trained, and he’d taken special care with her. Her face, he’d said, was the kind that looked like an open book, even when she could tell a lie without blinking. No one trusted such an honest face, he’d told her, or they would trust her too well. Both could be dangerous.

“I found her papers,” she said. Sticking close to the truth was the safest thing to do. “They were still in her purse.”

“Did you bring them?”

She knew what she ought to say. It would only be the right thing to hand them over, to give him what little she could of Jeanne. To her shame, she only thought of that answer when she realized it would be the right thing to do. Her first thought was the one she acted on, the one she knew would keep her safe.

“No. I didn’t think it would be right to take anything from her.”

The man didn’t seem bothered by that, but neither did he seem relieved. She hoped now that he wouldn’t seek out his sister’s body. She hadn’t told him where to find it, after all, and he would want to look after his wife. He wouldn’t want to go off and possibly get himself in trouble just for his sister’s body. She wouldn’t want him to go and find that the papers weren’t there at all. It would be trouble for both of them.

After what felt like an eternity, the man nodded, and Molly let out a slow breath. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “She’d been gone for days, and Aurelie and I had begun to worry.”

The woman -- Aurelie -- nodded. “Jeanne always was the sort to wander off. We would try to tell her that she was being reckless, but you know how sisters are.”

“I don’t,” Molly admitted. “I’m an only child.”

“Had you a brother or sister, you would know,” Aurelie said. “You would have been told often enough not to go wandering about the way you seem to be doing.” She gave Molly an odd look, one that Molly couldn’t read at first. “You put me in mind a little of Jeanne. You don’t much look like her, but at the same time, in a certain light, I could almost make believe she was right here before us. Isn’t that so, Charles?”

Charles shrugged.

Aurelie smiled sadly, looking more down at her baby than at anyone else. “I suppose it’s only me. I always did think people looked alike when they really had nothing in common. It’s a bad habit of mine.”

Molly didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know if there was anything she could say at all. Jeanne’s papers felt as though they were burning a hole through her bag, and she desperately hoped she could be far from here before she had to use them, if she ever had to use them at all.

“You must stay for dinner,” Aurelie went on. “It wouldn’t be right to send you away, not after what you’ve told us.”

Charles still said nothing. The only relief Molly had was that he was glaring at empty space rather than at her, even if that empty space seemed to be right in front of her.

“What’s your name?” Aurelie asked.

“Margot. I hope you understand if I don’t tell you anything more.”

“Of course.”

Charles didn’t look eager to understand anything at all, but he didn’t stop Aurelie from having Nicolas (their son, Molly assumed) fetch something for their guest to eat, or from having Molly join them at the table. They all joined hands, and Aurelie said a quick prayer, blessing the food before them, asking God to look after them, and praying to Saint Joan to look after her sister’s soul.

“Amen,” Molly murmured, and she didn’t say another word as she settled in to eat.

She didn’t say another word all the rest of the night. Aurelie took charge, directing Nicolas to clear the table as she took the infant off to bed. Charles seemed to be in a world of his own, and he allowed Aurelie to send him off to bed as well. Molly was given a space to sleep by the fire, and she curled up under an old blanket, glad for a chance to rest.

She would have been glad had she been able to rest at all. Just before her eyes closed, Aurelie sat beside her.

“You can rest more in the morning,” she said, sitting down and pulling her knees up to her chest. In the fading firelight, she looked even younger than before. Molly could scarcely believe she was Nicolas’s mother. “None of us will blame you for wanting to sleep in, and Nicolas won’t wake you. That shriek was the most sound I’ve heard him make in days.” She frowned slightly, glancing quickly at Molly before turning her gaze firmly to the flames. “You needn’t worry about Charles. He isn’t always like this. It’s only Jeanne…”

“It must have been quite a shock, losing his sister,” Molly said.

Aurelie nodded. “His twin, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him.”

No wonder he had been so troubled when Aurelie had commented on Molly’s similarity to her. No wonder he was so shaken. “I’m sorry.”

Aurelie said nothing, but a faint smile flashed across her face. It was gone in an instant, and for a while longer Aurelie merely stared at the flames. Molly was just about to lie down and fall asleep when she spoke again. “You don’t have to answer this question if you don’t want to.”

“Then why ask it?”

“Because if you care to give me an answer, I should like to know what it is.” Aurelie turned, looking straight at Molly, who felt rather as though she had been stuck through with a large pin. She had seemed so soft before, when looking at her children or her husband, but now there was steel lurking within her. “Are you here to help?”

“I’m here because I have nowhere else to be,” Molly said.

Aurelie shook her head. “No one wanders about these days, especially not women. What brought you to our home? What brought you by Jeanne?”

“Chance,” Molly said, but that still wasn’t enough. Aurelie leaned forward, lowering her voice and sounding all the more dangerous for her quiet. Molly glanced down to her hand, fearful for a moment she might have a knife. She didn’t, but the fear wouldn’t leave her.

“I’m placing my life in your hands by asking this,” she said. “Mine, my brother’s, and my children’s. I’m trusting you, Margot, and I hope to God that I can.”

Molly barely had a chance to think about what Aurelie had said -- her brother? -- before Aurelie pushed on, leaning so close that Molly could feel her breath against her cheek as she whispered the question to her.

“Are you part of the resistance?”

“No.”

The answer came out quickly, perhaps too much so, but Aurelie looked as though she believed it. At the very least, she didn’t look as though she disbelieved it. She only frowned again and turned her attention back to the fire. “You won’t tell anyone I asked? Not even Charles?”

“No,” Molly said again.

“Thank you,” Aurelie said. “He doesn’t need another sister to worry about.”

Molly waited for her to say anythng more, but Aurelie said nothing at all. She only sat looking at the fire until Molly fell asleep. By the time Molly woke, it was late morning and she was alone.


	6. Castle on a Cloud

It was late morning, and Molly was alone.

She didn’t much mind that. Molly had always been a solitary girl. Even at seventeen, she tended to keep to herself, tucked away from other girls her age with a book or a sketch rather than with a boy. It didn’t help that she was plain and mousy, that she could never hold the gaze of a handsome boy, that her clothes were dowdy and her father… well. No one talked much about that unless they had to. It was a shame and a pity, but nevertheless something everyone wanted to edge around. She’d gotten a few glances just afterward, assurances that people cared for her, but after that all was silence.

That was all right. Molly was used to silence. It was far more comfortable than any sort of attention could ever be.

The silence today was pleasant. She lay curled up in bed, one arm across her stomach, eyes half-open and staring blankly at the sunlight streaming in through the window. She ought to be up and about, ought to be moving and wandering, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to move yet, even though she felt much better than she had the day before.

She couldn’t remain still forever. She’d never been capable of that. After a few minutes, her mind and body felt fully awake, and she had little choice but to sit up. She ran a hand through her hair, not caring that it caught on a mass of tangles. She hadn’t had a chance to brush it all yesterday, and she hadn’t cared to the night before. She had been too giddy, too wild, too full of life to do anything but tumble into bed. It was a wonder she had managed to sleep at all. Every part of her body felt far too awake to sleep again.

But she had. She had slept all night and a good part of the day, and it was through only a bit of luck that her mother had believed her aching stomach to have come from an illness and not from the Fishers’ apple brandy. It was through even more luck that Mrs. Hooper hadn’t called for a doctor but had decided sleep would serve her daughter best.

It wasn’t really so much luck. She’d needed to go to work, after all, and didn’t have time anymore to fuss over her only child. Molly was too old to feel sad about that, and if it meant she could get over the excesses of a night in peace, she would accept a little neglect.

Still, a doctor should have come for her today. Suppose she had something contagious? Suppose she had something deadly?

The thought was enough to make her laugh, and the sound echoed slightly in her bedroom. She imagined it could be heard all through the little house. Normally the thought would have alarmed her, but today she didn’t care. Today she didn’t care about anything at all. Molly Hooper, seventeen and the least pretty girl in Northamptonshire, was in love.

She fairly floated from her bed and to her mirror, humming idly. A fragment of a poem floated to her mind, but she couldn’t recall any more than the words and a vague recollection of what the poem had been about. Tragedy, and love, and a beautiful woman every girl that year had pretended to be. (Every girl but Molly. She had known all too well she was destined for mediocrity even then.) The fragment drifted through her mind now, thrilling and chilling her all at once.

“The mirror cracked from side to side…”

What would that feel like, to see a mirror crack before her, to know her world had suddenly opened up? It would mean her death, but then, what wouldn’t? Everything always meant death in the end.

This was how beautiful women thought, she was sure. They did not care how or whether they died. They only cared that they left a beautiful afterimage behind them.

Molly stared at her reflection. She still wasn’t beautiful. Her brown hair was still just as brown, and a day of lying abed had done nothing to grace her with any curls. Her cheekbones still stood out only from not having quite enough to eat, and her eyes were the same as ever, the same dull brown. 

But was there now a hint of beauty about her smile? Was there something alluring in her gaze that had not been there last year, or even last month?

Molly certainly liked to think so, and she dressed quickly, moving as though drifting about on a cloud. None of her clothes were particularly flattering, but her gray dress was the nicest, especially when paired with the pink ribbon she wove into her hair. Harriet hated ribbons, saying they made her look years younger, and because she was Harriet, every other girl followed her lead at once. When Molly looked in the mirror, she didn’t see a girl years younger. She still looked her own age, but fresh somehow, as though spring was blooming on her face. Love would make a poet out of her.

Even if they could have afforded them, the Hoopers never wore cosmetics. Molly’s mother didn’t approve, and so Molly had to make do with biting her lips and pinching her cheeks. That brought a bit of color into them, and for once they didn’t blotch as they so often did. She looked bright and eager, ready for a day out on the town, or as much of a day as Northamptonshire could afford.

She looked ready for Edgar Honeysett.

Molly sailed down the narrow stairs into the kitchen, where she saw with a slight pang to her conscience that her mother had left a bit of bread on a plate and some water in the kettle for her breakfast when she woke. Heating the water would give her enough time to toast the bread, but she felt a little guilty for so enjoying herself when her mother assumed she was still abed, ill with some dreadful affliction of her stomach. She would have to do something particularly nice later on. Something like not lying again, perhaps or not going out drinking apple brandy with Edgar.

She’d hardly need to go out drinking again. He loved her now, and they both knew it. Surely they could find something more enjoyable to do.

Molly ate quickly, scarcely taking the time to savor her breakfast before she was out the door. One day, she promised herself. She would take this one day to enjoy herself, and then it would be right back to being good Molly Hooper again. She just needed this one chance to snatch up a bit of happiness, the way her mother had when she was younger. Surely her mother couldn’t begrudge her that. Her own happiness had been the stuff of fairy tales up until…

It had all gone wrong well before anyone could have guessed. Back as far as the Great War was when her father’s life had been ruined, and her mother’s too. Molly supposed it had reached her as well, though she’d been too young to really notice. You couldn’t miss what you had never had.

But you could celebrate it once you did have it. Grinning from ear to ear, Molly raced out of the house in search of Edgar.

He wasn’t by the Fishers’, but then of course he wouldn’t be. He was far too clever to be caught by them and probably wouldn’t dare to hang around their house until well after they had forgotten about the stolen brandy. It wasn’t dangerous for Molly to be there -- no one would suspect Molly Hooper of any wrongdoing -- but she still moved on quickly. If Edgar wasn’t there, she had no reason to be either.

He wasn’t by the schoolyard, either, or the church, or any other place Molly might have thought of as one of his haunts. She hadn’t gone so far as to dog his steps, not being a desperate sort of girl like Harriet’s hangers-on so often were, but she did know where he liked to spend his time, and she thought she might have been able to find him if she wanted to, and she very much did want to.

She couldn’t track him down until well into the afternoon, when he was leaving his father’s shop. The whole family were cobblers, and everyone knew Edgar would go into the same trade if only he could be persuaded not to wander about and shirk his duties. Molly hadn’t gone to the shop because she had been certain he would never be found there. His lack of interest in being anything close to a good son was nearly legendary all through the town. Whatever would he be doing in the one place he was supposed to be?

Holding Celeste Lewis’s hand, it turned out, and whispering in her ear.

Molly froze, feeling as rooted to the ground as… as that one nymph whose name she could never remember. But that nymph had been fleeing a man’s advances, not trying to make her own. If she was anyone at all, she was Echo, pining after her lost love from afar, the only way she could. She was the lady of Shalott -- now, of all times, she remembered the poem! -- catching Lancelot and Guinevere together and dying of jealousy. That had not been what had happened in the poem, but it was what would happen now at any moment. Molly felt as though she was burning up inside. Another girl, someone like Harriet, would stride forward and demand answers. What exactly was Edgar thinking, whispering to Celeste like that? Had their snogging under the oak tree two nights ago meant nothing to him?

Clearly it hadn’t, or he would have been able to do it without the aid of apple brandy. Cheeks ablaze, Molly turned on her heel and stalked away.

It wasn’t until she was halfway back home that second thoughts came to her. Maybe there was a perfectly innocent reason for Edgar to be talking to Celeste. Maybe he was offering her advice on… on something, Molly scarcely knew what, but something that was not love. Maybe she carried a torch for his cousin, a man half again her age with a missing tooth and eyes that were too big for his face and a laugh that sounded like a braying donkey.

Molly couldn’t possibly convince herself of that. She wasn’t a remotely skilled enough liar. 

She was nearly home by the time she realized Celeste had noticed her there. Dark-haired, blue-eyed Celeste had seen her, and no doubt she had told Edgar exactly what she had seen. Molly’s cheeks blazed yet again at the thought of the two of them laughing at her. They would tell everyone what had happened. Edgar was the handsomest boy in town, and the thought that a girl like Molly could pursue him was utterly ridiculous. She should have known better. Even drunk and giddy, she should have known better.

Her mother was already home by the time she pushed open the door and hurried inside. She started to speak, but all Molly could catch was “Looks as though you’re feeling better” before she was up the stairs and in her room. She only just paused to close the door before flinging herself onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow.

Barely a minute passed before the door opened again. Molly didn’t move. She heard a pair of footsteps come a little ways into the room before pausing. Then, a few seconds later, one word.

“Moll.”

Molly lifted her head. No one had called her Moll since she was a little girl and her father had been able to lift her up onto his shoulders to carry her about. She had loved to spread her arms out and pretend she was flying.

Her mother stood in the doorway, frowning slightly. Molly wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “Mum, I’m sorry,” she began, but her mother shook her head before she could go on.

“We’ve both made fools of ourselves over men now,” she said. “I never had any reason to apologize to you, and the only apology I’ll accept is you being up in the morning ready to do the breakfast dishes. Is that clear?”

Molly nodded. She had little other choice.

“Good.” Her mother turned to the door, then paused a moment. “By the way, Moll, I’m not quite as daft as you’d like to think. I know what brandy smells like the morning after it’s been drunk.”

Molly slumped onto her pillow, too embarrassed to speak, but she did think she saw the hint of a smile on her mother’s face.


	7. When the Fall's All There Is, It Matters

Molly could count on one hand the number of times she’d been able to sleep well into the morning. Her early childhood hardly counted, for she couldn’t remember that, but even then she had often been up with the sun. (Earlier, in winter.) Illness only excused her when she truly was too ill to move. There were chores to do, after all, and only so many hands about the house to do them. Molly had to do her part the same as Mum and Dad, and after Dad… after he died, there was only her and Mum to manage the house.

There had been a day when she was eleven, when Annie Lewis had come to school ill and everyone else had spent the next week vomiting and feverish. Molly, ever a hale child, had been recovered by that evening and had gone back to school after one day of rest and broth.

Then when she was fourteen, after Dad… Mum had let her stay in bed the next day. For all their disagreements, she could be merciful sometimes.

Then the two days when she was seventeen, after getting drunk off the apple brandy.

And now today.

Molly sat up, the blanket falling off her shoulders. Though it was thin and patched, it had kept her warm enough through the night. She folded it, set it on a chair, and stepped outside to search for either Charles or Aurelie.

She found Nicolas first, grubbing about in the dirt. It was impossible to tell whether he was trying to pull up weeds or had simply been sent out of the way, but as soon as he saw her, he stopped and stared up at her, eyes wide and lips pressed tightly together. She should have known better than to hope he might speak.

“Where’s your mother?” Molly asked.

Nicolas shrugged and went back to the dirt. For a moment, Molly thought she would have to wander about on her own, but then Nicolas glanced up again and stared straight at her.

His eyes were like his mother’s, and far too sharp for a boy his age. Where it had seemed dangerous on Aurelie, on Nicolas it was downright unsettling. Shivers ran up and down Molly’s spine, but as he got to his feet and started to walk away, she found she had no choice but to follow him.

This must have been how Hamlet felt when confronted with the ghost of his father. Molly had read the play once, when she was in school, but that moment had always baffled her. What could possibly compel a man to walk along after a spirit, even knowing it might bring him to his own doom? Now she knew, and it was in the eyes of this small child.

He led her around the back of the house, where they found Aurelie. Unlike her son, she was busily weeding away, her fingers coated with dirt. Some was smeared on her cheeks and brow, where she must have wiped her hair away from her eyes, and the baby was settled in a little basket in place of a cradle. It was so quiet and still Molly feared for a moment it might have died, but then she saw its little mouth moving. That reassured her, but she hoped Aurelie would have had more feeling had her baby been dead.

“Did you sleep well?” Aurelie asked, not glancing up for a moment from her work.

Molly nodded. “Too well. I’d thought I was able to sleep lightly.”

“You will be. It’s harder to do so when you know you’re safe.” She smiled faintly, pleased by something Molly couldn’t fathom at first. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s felt safe in my home.”

“I wasn’t certain I was safe at all,” Molly admitted.

Aurelie wasn’t offended at all. “Some part of you knew you were. That’s how it always is. There’s a part of us wiser than we can know.” Her smile appeared again, and this time she looked up at Molly. “Someone was looking out for you, to guide you here. The Virgin, I think. She’s always protected me.”

Molly couldn’t think of anything to say to that. She could only make a soft, noncommittal noise and kneel beside Aurelie. Her skirt was already dirty from traveling, so all it took to prepare to work was to roll up her sleeves. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“You can clear all the Nazis out of France,” Aurelie said. When Molly tensed, she shook her head ruefully. “I know. You aren’t part of the resistance. But it would be nice if you were.”

“That isn’t the sort of thing you should say out loud,” Molly said, glancing toward Nicolas.

“It’s the sort of thing I should be careful about saying out loud,” Aurelie corrected her. “If I never said it aloud, I should never learn anything.”

“But you might stand a better chance at staying alive.”

“You would stand a better chance at staying alive if you had stayed home.”

Molly almost tensed again before realizing that it was obvious she was away from home simply by virtue of being here. Aurelie and Charles had never seen her before, but it was clear she wasn’t from around here. They might not know where she had come from, but they could at least guess she was a stranger, even if they hopefully still thought she was a stranger. “Not all of us are able to make wise choices like that.”

“No, we’re not. Sometimes wisdom isn’t all that matters.” Aurelie whistled, and Nicolas scurried to her side. “Fetch me a trowel. Our guest is going to help with the garden.”

“I should be on my way,” Molly began, but Aurelie shook her head.

“If I say you’re going to help, you’ll help. It’s the least you can do, after we let you stay the night. You’ve done gardening before, haven’t you?”

“I have.” She had done her fair share and more back home. There was the Hooper garden to look after, and several others in town besides. It had been one of many little odd jobs she’d hired herself out for when she couldn’t find work in a shop. There had been something terribly satisfying about coming home with her hands and knees covered in dirt.

“Excellent,” Aurelie said. “Settle beside me, then, and we’ll get to work. Nicolas, you can help too.” But Nicolas was already gone, off to fetch a trowel. Aurelie laughed. “Look how scattered I am! I fear I quite badly need your help, Margot.”

“You helped me earlier,” Molly said. “I’ll try to pay you back in kind.”

“I’m glad we agree on that.”

Nicolas returned with the trowel shortly thereafter, and both women set quickly to work. It had been years since Molly had worked in a garden -- it had been years since she’d had any need to -- and it surprised her how much she had missed it. She hadn’t realized she might until just now, as she dug into the soil and smelled the rich earth turning up beneath her. It was peaceful, working here alongside Aurelie and Nicolas, feeling sunlight on her shoulderblades and seeing a garden come to order before her hands.

“How long has it been since you had a chance to be outside?” Aurelie asked, wiping some sweat from her cheek and leaving behind a smear of dirt. Curiously, it looked good on her. That, more than almost anything else, made Molly feel nostalgic for the days before the war.

That wasn’t remotely true. Everything made Molly miss the days before the war. This just made her ache more than she was accustomed to.

“Years,” she said. (Sleeping outside and traveling hardly counted.) “I used to garden with my mother.”

“I used to garden with mine,” Aurelie said. “Funny, isn’t it, the things we have in common.”

There was something else she wasn’t saying, and Molly rather thought she knew what it might be. Lowering her voice, she said, “I think we’re alone, unless you’re worried about…” Her gaze darted to Nicolas for a split second. He likely hadn’t noticed, but with those sharp eyes of his, there was no telling what he might or might not see.

“He is my son,” Aurelie said. “I would never have anything to fear from him.” She laughed, and if there was a hint of anxiety to that laugh, Molly decided it was best not to comment on it. There was surely a hint of anxiety to everything these days. “Besides, he’s a child. He’s too young to tell anyone anything. You keep your mother’s secrets, don’t you, my little cabbage?”

Nicolas nodded, the most serious little cabbage Molly had ever seen.

“Ask me, then,” Molly said. “I’ll try to be honest with you.”

“I like that,” Aurelie said. “Try. You’ll always keep things from me, won’t you?”

Always implied Molly would be around far longer than she planned, and they both knew that wouldn’t be the case. Even so, she nodded.

Aurelie sighed. “It can’t be helped. I did ask you to lie to my brother. I can’t ask you to tell me the truth after that.”

Molly couldn’t ask Aurelie to give a proper response, apparently. Years ago, she would have bit her tongue and waited, perhaps even pretended to forget she had expected one at all. She no longer had that much patience. “What do you want to know?”

Perhaps she was still more patient than she ought to be. Hemlock would have demanded an answer by now.

“Whether you’re in the resistance.”

“I answered that last night.”

“Not well enough to satisfy me.” Aurelie sat back on her heels. “Charles isn’t here. If he’s the one you’re wary of -- which he shouldn’t be, you’re perfectly safe around him -- you needn’t worry now. He can’t overhear us, and I’ll never tell him what you say.” Molly had been looking down at the ground, but when she looked up, she saw that Aurelie was staring straight at her. Even in the sunlight, her gaze was far too intense. “Unless I’m the one you’re frightened of?”

“Not frightened,” Molly said, though that wasn’t precisely true. She was frightened of anyone she didn’t know. Even Christophe, miles away, alarmed her by just how much he knew.

“Then why won’t you tell me the truth?”

“I did. Why are you so eager to know?”

“Because it matters.” Something in Aurelie’s gaze had changed. It was just as fierce, just as intense, but now it seemed younger, more open. She was earnest, far too much so, and if it weren’t for Charles’s protection, she would likely have found a way to throw herself into trouble by now, perhaps even get herself killed.

Molly had been that sort of girl. Sometimes she was certain she still was. That was why she scooted closer to Aurelie and leaned against the young woman, keeping her voice low.

“I’m not in the resistance,” she said, “but I am working against the Nazis. I have my own mission, but if it succeeds, it will be a blow to them.”

Aurelie’s eyes lit up. “You’re telling the truth?”

God help her, she was. Molly nodded.

Aurelie beamed. “Even if they track me down because of you, it will be worth it. I’m only glad someone is here to do something. I’m glad we haven’t been wholly forgotten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may take a brief hiatus after this chapter. I've got an audition coming up that I need to prep for. This isn't over, though, so keep an eye out on Saturdays! I should have chapter eight up before the new year.


	8. Behind Enemy Lines

Aurelie’s words made up Molly’s mind, though it had been made up already. She would leave as soon as possible. Aurelie might be able to live with whatever happened if the Germans found out Molly had been here -- not her specifically, but any Englishwoman, any SOE agent -- but Molly couldn’t.

She suspected Charles couldn’t, either, and so when he returned home, Molly walked straight up to him, hardly caring that Aurelie and Nicolas were looking up from their work to watch her.

After gardening, they had all set to work cleaning the house. Nicolas, of course, had done the least, but even holding the door open while they swept had been a little help. The washing had been done two days before, but there was still mending and darning to finish. (Aurelie handled the darning herself, for which Molly was a little glad. She could sew, but not well enough to mend socks.) It was all terribly domestic, and if Aurelie’s words hadn’t still been hanging over her head, Molly might almost have felt at home. As it was, she felt a little homesick.

She banished the feeling as quickly as she could when Charles entered. She had to banish her pity, too, for he looked worn down and exhausted. He likely hadn’t slept last night, and to be out for most of the day…

It was no more than Molly had faced, no more than many others from the SOE had faced. It was a great deal less than some of the soldiers faced, let alone those persecuted by the Nazi regime. She would have no pity for him now, not thinking on that.

“I’m leaving,” she said.

“Good,” Charles replied. And that was that. Nothing for her to worry about, nor for the rest of the family.

Aurelie didn’t seem to agree, and she shot to her feet, glaring. It wasn’t a particularly intimidating glare, but only because she kept blinking and ruining it. “She can’t go!” she cried.

“It isn’t your choice,” Charles said. “It isn’t mine, either. She’s a grown woman. When she’s ready to leave, she’ll leave.”

“But it’s dangerous,” Aurelie began, but she got no further. Molly was the one to cut her off.

She hadn’t expected to speak. She hadn’t expected any of this commotion over her leaving. All she did know was that she had to go, and quickly. Charles at least understood, and she hoped Aurelie could be brought to understanding before it proved to be too late for any of them.

“It was dangerous coming here,” she said. “It will be dangerous if I stay. Anywhere I might go is dangerous. I don’t want to bring it onto anyone more.”

It would be even more dangerous for Hemlock if she stayed. That was something she couldn’t live with.

“Where will you go?” Aurelie asked. “Answer that, and I won’t fight anymore.”

She couldn’t tell Aurelie the truth, but she couldn’t think of a lie that would satisfy her. If she had any family to be with, she would surely already be with them, and the same would go for any friends. She was traveling the wrong way to get to England, though it was possible none of the family had noticed she was headed east.

It was also possible they had. Molly wasn’t worried they would turn on her. She was worried Aurelie would be so concerned she would keep her in the house by force if necessary.

“East.”

Aurelie took the news about as well as Molly had hoped. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and her gaze shot from Molly to Charles and back. “You can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

“There are others in more dangers,” Molly said.

“They chose that danger!”

“And so did I.” Molly had never imagined her voice could sound so cool, so dispassionate, but there it was, coming out of her mouth. She didn’t sound quite like Hemlock, but certainly more logical than he had ever accused her of being. Months ago, it might have frightened her, but now she was glad of it. It was another tool she could use, and she needed all the tools she could get her hands on.

“But --” Aurelie stopped, her eyes widening, and she pressed her lips shut again. Whatever she’d figured out -- and Molly couldn’t tell whether she’d guessed the truth or not -- it was enough to silence her.

It was enough to satisfy Charles, too. He didn’t ask Molly any more questions. He didn’t say anything at all. The family dined in silence, and he didn’t speak at all until they had finished eating and Molly was gathering the dishes. She had just reached his plate when he set a hand on her arm and asked, “When do you intend to leave?”

“Tonight,” she said. “Thank you for letting me have dinner.”

“I wouldn’t send you out on an empty stomach.” He frowned. “I didn’t think you would leave so soon.”

“I thought you wanted me to go.”

“Not east.” His frown deepened, as though he wanted to say something more, but then he shook his head. “I won’t try to stop you. You’re a grown woman who knows her own mind.”

“I won’t tell anyone you helped me.”

Charles’s smile was so grim it frightened her. “It may not matter in the end.”

She couldn’t stop thinking about that smile as she washed the dishes, and when Aurelie joined her, they stood together in silence for a while. The only way Molly knew Aurelie was there was that the other woman kept plucking plates from her hand to dry them. After the last one was finished, she set a hand on Molly’s back.

“I’ll miss you, you know.”

“I wasn’t here long enough to be missed.”

Aurelie laughed. It wasn’t as bleak as her brother’s smile, but it was still a mirthless sound. “That’s not true at all. I’ll miss you as long as I’m able to wonder about you, and you’ve given me a great deal to wonder about. You didn’t even tell us your real name, did you?”

Molly shook her head.

“I didn’t think so. Are you at least French?”

She nodded, wishing her throat wasn’t quite so tight. She was certain she could trust herself to speak, but silence was safer.

Aurelie must have believed her. Molly prayed she did. At the very least, her questions turned in other directions, which was enough of a relief. “What you told me before, in the garden, that was all true. Don’t say a word; I know it was. I could see it in your eyes. I just want to know one more thing.”

Molly held her breath, waiting, but in the end Aurelie asked the easiest question in the world to answer.

“Will what you’re doing in the east help your mission?”

She nodded, and when she turned her head, she saw Aurelie smiling. “It’s the sole purpose of my mission,” she said. “I can’t do anything if I stay here, or if I go someplace safer.”

“Go with God, then,” Aurelie said, and she flung her arms around Molly. “I’ll pray for you.”

“Thank you,” Molly said, wishing she knew what to do when someone she barely knew started hugging her. “I’ll pray for you, too.” It was a sentiment she’d never expressed before, one she’d never even needed to have.

Except once.

Molly pulled back, thoughts racing. She knew she had to be wary, and yet… “Would you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

Such eagerness, such affection. Was that how she had looked back in England? Molly hadn’t the faintest idea, but she simultaneously hoped so and hoped it hadn’t been quite as noticeable. “There’s a man I stayed with for a while,” she said. “West of here. If he should come looking for me, tell him I’m safe.” She liked to think he was too intelligent for that, but it might help somehow, for her two saviors to be aware of each other.

“West,” Aurelie said. “Where does he live?”

“I can’t tell you that.” The last thing she needed was for Aurelie to go out in search of him, or to give anything about him away if she was questioned.

“His name, then? I can’t tell him anything if I don’t know who I’m talking to, and I won’t tell anything about you to a stranger, no matter what.” She looked so fierce and determined that Molly couldn’t help but be touched. She was worried as well; all that determination would come to nothing if the Nazis decided she was truly dangerous and wanted to use any means necessary to find her. How well would Aurelie stand up to torture? The Germans would drag everything out of her, about Molly and about Christophe.

But Aurelie had a good point. “Christophe,” Molly said. “I can’t tell you his surname --”

“You don’t need to,” Aurelie said quickly. “Should he come asking for you, I’ll make sure he’s truly Christophe, and I’ll tell him what I can.”

“Thank you,” Molly said. “I doubt he’ll follow me, and I doubt he’d manage to track me here, but in case he does, I don’t want him to wander forever. It’s dangerous, as you’ve said.”

“It is.” Aurelie took Molly’s hands and squeezed them tightly. “Good night, Margot. Sleep well.”

“You too.”

Molly did indeed sleep well, and when she woke, breakfast was prepared. It was hardly rich fare, but it was far better than she had been accustomed to on the road, and when Charles pushed the rest of a loaf of bread into her hands, she accepted it gratefully, even embracing him, to the surprise of both.

Then she was off on her way to Germany, and to Hemlock.


	9. Rise to the Occasion

The bread didn’t last nearly as long as Molly had hoped it would. She ate it as slowly as she dared, even though it was already growing stale and would likely grow mold if she left it too much longer. A quick bite here, a nibble there… just enough to keep her moving through the day.

By evening, the bread was completely gone.

It was probably for the best. The last thing she needed was to make herself sick by eating moldy bread.

Or perhaps the last thing she needed was to starve to death, or to be captured and interrogated, or to lose her nerve entirely and turn back to England. The Wolf wasn’t a “with your shield or on it” sort of man, but he would much rather she come back having completed her mission. She would much rather go back having completed her mission. The last thing she wanted was to let anyone down, especially those who had trusted her.

She worked her way east, doing her best to avoid battlefields, but it wasn’t always easy. She wished she could have brought along a map sometimes, or at least a compass. Anyone could navigate on a sunny day, but when the sky was overcast, it grew much harder. She took to marking the ground near where she slept with little arrows pointing east. Every morning, she scuffed them with her boot until there was nothing but a bare patch of earth to show where she had been. Surely no one would be able to follow that.

And if they could, well, they almost deserved to catch her, didn’t they?

There wasn’t much food for her to find. It didn’t help that she was trying to avoid cities as well. The Wolf had taught her how to find edible plants and how to hunt, but people must have already come through, foraging, or animals had eaten everything they could. She was no wolf herself. It was easier to try surviving on greens and mushrooms than to track down rabbits and badgers.

It wasn’t nearly as filling, though. She slept lightly these days and didn’t remember her dreams, but when she did, they were dreams of meat. The rationing back home meant she couldn’t get as much meat into her as she would have liked, and more often than not, it was cooked so poorly as to be nearly inedible. The days before rationing, though, had been wonderful. 

Wonderful by comparison, anyway. For a poor family, nothing could truly be wonderful, but some things could come close.

Goose for Christmas, for instance. Chicken stew whenever one of the hens got too old to lay eggs. Ham on very, very special occasions. Sometimes she’d woken and found her mother up early, frying bacon, and the smell would linger in the house for the rest of the morning.

Those had been good days. They made for good dreams, too, though she woke from them with her stomach growling.

The Wolf had warned her about a great deal, but he hadn’t told her about the hunger. He hadn’t warned her that she would go through her days with only two thoughts in her mind -- Hemlock and food -- and that it would be all but impossible for her to tell which was more important to her. He hadn’t said a word about how she would push on until she barely felt the pain, about how she would alternate between feeling lightheaded and feeling as though her thoughts were clearer than glass, about how she wouldn’t be able to tell which of those feelings was truly safe.

He certainly hadn’t told her that hunger would make her brave. When she came up to a farmhouse that looked abandoned, her stomach whispered to her of canned goods and vegetables tucked into a root cellar. Her steps slowed, then stopped.

The house was quiet, practically run down. One of the windows was broken, and the door stood ajar. The garden was overgrown with weeds, though Molly suspected she could still find something useful in it. She hadn’t had dandelion greens in a while; even those might give her a decent bit of variety.

She watched, waiting. No smoke came out of the chimney. No one came in or out. There were no animals to be seen, not even any wild ones. If it weren’t for the garden, she might have assumed every living thing had abandoned it.

Surely it couldn’t hurt to check.

Molly crept forward, ever ready to either defend herself or flee. They were two impulses that had been so close to the surface of her mind for so long that they felt practically comfortable. She would have felt more uncomfortable if she weren’t on edge.

(The thought had crossed her mind, occasionally, that this would make it difficult to go back to her old life. She didn’t much care. There was no promise she would be able to go back at all.)

The door creaked slightly as she pushed it open, and Molly jumped away, pressing her back against the wall. She had a knife strapped against her belly under her shirt, held on by a belt, and her hand at once shot to the hilt, clutching it so tightly she knew her knuckles must have turned white. She stood, waiting, scarcely daring to breathe.

Nothing happened.

After about a minute, she crept back toward the door and peered inside. The front room was empty. No one had come down to investigate.

That didn’t mean the house was truly empty.

Before she even began looking for food, she set about searching the house, one hand ever on her knife. It was a small cottage, smaller even than the house she’d grown up in, and it didn’t take long to ascertain there was no one there. There were only four rooms, after all: the front room, a kitchen, a room that must have served as a general purpose room, and a bedroom. There was an outhouse in the back, and a well around the front.

Molly couldn’t find any trace of the cellar, but that was all right. She could dig in the garden for food, and in any case, it would be a nice place to sleep. It would be a welcome respite to have a bed in place of a floor or the ground, and there might well be clean clothes somewhere about. Even if there weren’t, she could draw water from the well to clean what she had.

She could draw water from the well for a bath. At that moment, nothing sounded more heavenly than a bath.

A second search of the house revealed not only clothes, but pots and pans, and her quick forays into the garden uncovered tubers and herbs. It wasn’t the sort of meal she’d dreamed of, but it would do for a stew, especially once she found a pheasant nest by the house. Even hungry, she could break a pheasant’s neck, and while the water boiled, she plucked it, leaving the feathers in a pile on the floor. Her mother would have had a fit, but her mother wasn’t here to see this.

She tried not to think about what the owner of the house would have said on seeing the mess. She tried not to think about what might have happened to the owner of the house.

It wasn’t easy.

Cooking kept her mind off things a little, as did boiling her clothes in another pot. She wanted them cleaned before abandoning them. For all she knew, someone else would want to use them, and even if they were desperate enough to take abandoned clothes, they might as well have clean abandoned clothes. She knew she would have preferred it that way.

She hoped, suddenly, that the clothes she’d found were clean. It was an irrational thought and hardly mattered anyway, but she already had so much now that finding herself in dirty clothes would be a a terrible disappointment.

She forced herself to focus on her dinner. That, even more than the clothes, was what was really important.

Molly couldn’t stop herself from eating all the stew in one sitting. She didn’t trust it to last well, even on the stove, and once she began, she found she couldn’t stop. She was far too hungry to even try, though her stomach ached afterward and she had to all but crawl into bed.

The bed felt like the softest thing in the world. If a whole platoon of Nazis were to storm into the house in the middle of the night, she would be completely helpless. Their boots on the floor would do nothing to wake her.

She wouldn’t want things any other way.

When she did wake, sometime in the middle of the night, she thought at first it must have been something like that. She couldn’t tell what had woken her, only that her heart was racing and every sense was on high alert, ready to fight or to fly. It couldn’t have come from nothing. Someone was in this house with her.

As quietly as she could, Molly grabbed her knife and crept out of bed. Her bare feet were all but silent on the floor, but she moved slowly even so, breathing shallowly. Halfway across the room, she heard what had woken her.

A soft cry of pain. 

Molly froze again, listening harder. A few minutes later, the sound repeated. Someone was here with her, and whoever they were, they needed the shelter just as much as she did, if not more. Her palm was slick with sweat, and she switched the knife to her other hand to wipe it dry. If she’d heard a German cursing in the other room, she would have been cool as ice, but the sound of someone in pain unsettled her.

But she couldn’t do nothing. She had her own mission, but it was like she’d told Aurelie: she was here to help.

As though some part of her mind intended even more that she should do something, she remembered the Wolf’s words, as clearly as though he spoke to her now.

_“You already know you’ll have to make hard choices out there, Tulip. I won’t tell you what to do because I don’t know what you’ll face, and because all of your training should -- if we’ve been doing this right at all -- have set you up to make up your own mind. I’ll just say this: remember that you’re human.”_

She did. She could hardly forget it.

Abandoning all attempts at stealth, Molly left the bedroom and entered the general purpose room. The kitchen was just across the way, and in it she could see someone moving slowly about, crying out with every other step, but what caught her attention first was the hole in the floor, leading down into what must have been the cellar. It hadn’t been under a rug, and she wondered how she could have looked past it. Hunger shouldn’t have been an excuse. She shouldn’t have needed any excuses.

Molly made her way around the hole, careful not to fall in, and called, “Hello?”

The figure in the kitchen froze, and Molly paused as well. She could easily imagine the other person waiting, trying to scope her out just as much as she was scoping out them. They could each be dangerous to each other, but if those cries of pain had been real -- and she had no reason to believe they were feigned -- then she was the more dangerous of the pair.

The thought comforted her somewhat as she continued forward.

“My name’s Margot,” she said. “Marguerite, really, but all my friends call me Margot. What’s your name?”

Silence.

“I know I’ve got a knife, but it’s nothing you need to worry about. I mean you no harm, I promise.”

Silence.

“I know this isn’t my house --”

“It’s mine.”

The voice was that of a young woman’s, barely more than a girl, and while that surprised Molly a little, what surprised her even more was what she said next.

“Do you know how to set a broken bone?”


	10. Left Behind

The girl was younger than Molly had thought she would be. She had expected someone the age of a few of the younger agents, but instead was confronted with a girl of maybe sixteen. Even that age seemed generous when they were both seated and a lantern was lit.

(Not a fire, the girl had insisted, though she was shivering and clutched a blanket Molly fetched tightly about her. Molly understood perfectly. A fire would be too easily seen. If they wanted to stay hidden, as the girl clearly did, the room ought to be as dark as possible. The lantern was only acceptable because Molly needed to see to set the girl’s leg. If it weren’t for that, she might have insisted on its being entirely dark.)

She was small, even smaller than Molly. Part of that had to come from starvation, just based on the way her bones stuck out against her skin, but Molly was certain it was mostly due to her age. She looked as though a strong blow would snap her in two, and the last thing Molly wanted was to walk away thinking she’d left a girl to die. It was much more reassuring to think the girl would continue to grow and become tall and strong.

This world was not one to offer many reassurances. Molly knew that all too well. The girl must have, too, for she didn’t once cry out as Molly pushed her broken bone into position. From the feel of it, it must have already begun healing wrong. She couldn’t imagine the sort of pain she had just put the girl through, nor did she want to. All she could do was what she did now: grit her teeth and push through.

The girl did the same. Molly could see it in the set of her jaw and the way her fists clenched at her sides. She let out a slow breath once Molly was done. “There’s no plaster,” she said after a moment. “And the only doctor I know was arrested.”

Maybe it was just the agony in the girl’s voice, but Molly had the feeling the doctor hadn’t just been carted off to some French prison.

(It was far more than the agony in the girl’s voice, and accepting that wasn’t just Molly trying to be honest with herself. Lying to herself wouldn’t just get her killed. It wouldn’t be fair to the doctor. The former reason was the more important, though.)

“I’m not a doctor,” Molly said.

“I know.” She smiled, though it turned into something more like a grimace after a second. Maybe it had always been a grimace. In the uncertain lamplight, it was impossible to tell. “If you were a doctor, you’d be able to make a cast.”

It had definitely been a smile. Molly could hear the faint humor in the girl’s voice.

She hoped she could, anyway, though not because she hoped she was still able to laugh. She wanted to still be able to trust her own mind. If she couldn’t trust anyone else around her, she ought to at least be able to trust herself. If she couldn’t, she had little doubt she’d either lose her mind or go the same route as her father.

Both would be more likely. She couldn’t imagine her father would have taken his own life had he been in his right mind.

“I couldn’t make a cast even if I had all the supplies laid out before me,” Molly said. “I’ve never been that sort of doctor.”

“What sort of doctor are you?” the girl asked, frowning.

“The sort that isn’t a doctor at all.”

The girl’s frown deepened, but Molly didn’t bother to explain. There was little point in lying about a secret, but she had no interest in spinning out further stories. There was no point, and so late at night she had little intention of creating any further mystique around herself. There was hardly any to begin with, and it ought to remain that way. Keeping a low profile was the best way to stay alive.

(She could see Wolf’s scornful look now, in the back of her mind, asking her just what the hell she thought she was doing, scurrying about France like a fugitive. While she was effectively one, she ought to have been a fugitive with resources, a fugitive who could seem like a native French woman. For God’s sake, she was supposed to seem like Margot Savatier! She ought to have a bed to sleep in every night, and not a stolen one. What had gone wrong?

The answer, as with so many, was something too long to recount except over a strong cup of tea, ideally with a bit of the Wolf’s secret stash of brandy splashed in.)

“I can make a splint for you,” she said, getting to her feet. “It won’t take long.”

The girl reached for her arm, stopping only when her leg hurt too much for her to reach any further and she flinched in pain. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

“I won’t be far,” Molly said, but the girl shook her head.

“I’m not scared,” she said, though her wide eyes belied that. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Not scared, just worried. And she had every right to be. For all either of them knew, a German patrol was passing by this house right now, even though it was in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. For all either of them knew, the only thing keeping them safe was the fact that they were both inside and the cottage looked completely deserted.

But the girl needed a splint for her leg. Molly couldn’t make a proper cast, and she couldn’t cook without a proper fire, but this at least she could do, and _would_ do. She was here to be useful, for God’s sake, and sometimes that meant in small ways rather than large. Hemlock might disagree, but she knew quite well she would have the Wolf’s backing.

At least, she hoped she would have the Wolf’s backing. Unless she knew otherwise, she would assume she did. It made a good many decisions much easier.

“I won’t be far,” she said, “and I won’t be gone long. There’s still some firewood I can use.”

The girl shook her head. “None of it’s long enough. I thought of that already.”

And tried it, hopefully, though to little avail. That much was obvious. She might well have not tried at all, though Molly preferred to think she had done something. It was a strange bit of optimism that she clung to. She could no longer entirely believe in the best of people -- no one could during these times -- but she could try to believe that everyone would act given the chance. That action might not always be good, but it would at least be something.

“I’ll bind them together,” she said. “I’ve done this before.”

“You have?” The girl’s eyes were wide from wonder now rather than fear (though she was likely still rather afraid) and Molly didn’t care to give her any notion that she was lying. 

“Of course,” she said. “Why would I lie to you?”

The girl didn’t answer. She only sat perfectly still, watching Molly for a while. When her silence grew too unsettling, Molly hurried out, glad for a chance to be gone.

The firewood was stacked by the front door, and just a glance at it was enough to tell her none of the pieces on their own would work for a splint. Still, Molly grabbed a few of the leaner ones and hurried back in, her breath catching in her throat. No one had seen her. She was sure of that. If she had been seen, surely she would have seen them in return.

Still, she didn’t feel remotely at ease until she was inside once more, and even then her heart still beat too fast. If someone had been passing by… if someone had seen…

Well, then they would both be dead, and that was that. The only reason to worry about being caught was a fear of dying, and Molly had forgotten how to fear her own death years ago.

She could tell herself that, but the truth was that she was still a little afraid of dying. (Some days more than a little.) She was afraid of betraying this girl, too, and of not dying immediately but living long enough to be tortured. She could give up information about Aurelie, about Christophe, about everyone back at the SOE. Most of them were safe, as the names she remembered were of those who intended to stay in Britain, but Hemlock was here. She might well give him up.

At least she was armed. She wouldn’t go down without a fight, and if it came to it, she could take her own life before they got to her.

The thought that terrified her once. Now it seemed more like a dread necessity.

The girl looked relieved when Molly returned, and when she asked about rope to tie some branches together, she directed her right to a ball of twine. She must have lived here, then, and not just stumbled across the house while wandering. The thought made Molly’s heart ache, and she wondered how long she could have stayed here. She knew she wouldn’t have been able to keep to her home if everyone else was gone. She would have left herself, even if there were enemy soldiers crawling all over the countryside.

It was hard work, tying the twine around the granches, but Molly had found two reasonably straight ones, and when she held them up to the girl’s leg, they very nearly matched the length. “I never thought to try that,” the girl murmured, as Molly bound the two together. “I’ve never seen a knot like that, either.”

“My uncle taught me,” Molly said.

The girl nodded thoughtfully. “My uncle taught me how to hunt. Said it would keep me fed in hard times.”

“Has it?”

The girl shrugged. “It did when I could walk around easier.”

“If I can make you a crutch, you’ll be walking again in no time.” Molly held the spint up to the girl’s leg. “Hold this here.” When she felt the girl had a decent grip on it, she began tying it to her leg.

“Thank you,” the girl said. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

“Healed it on your own, most likely,” Molly replied. “It might not have healed quite right, but the bone would have still knit together. There.” She sat back on her heels. “That’s the best I could do. If you need anything more, you ought to find a doctor.”

“I wouldn’t know where,” the girl said. “I don’t know how to find anyone I can trust.”

“Not even your family?”

She shook her head. “They were taken, too. I was out when they were, and I stayed hidden ever since. The cellar’s pretty useful for that.”

If this were a fairy tale, Molly would have some safe place to send the girl. She would send her to Aurelie, and Christophe would already have found his way there, and at some point when she was in great need, all three of them would come to find her. 

But if this were a fairy tale, it was the sort where anyone could die from simply not following the rules, and the only rule Molly was left with was to keep moving. “I’ll have to go in the morning,” she said. “Will you be all right on your own?”

The girl nodded. “I’ll have to be. Will you?”

It was the last question in the world Molly could have answered.


	11. Hard Times

Molly doubted this was quite the extremity Christophe would have thought she might face. It was a difficult time, certainly, but not a time when she might consider herself to have lost all hope. She had a roof over her head, after all, and the girl (she still had not shared her name, and Molly had not cared to give any sort of identity of her own) had asked her to stay. Though her words had sounded careless and she had shrugged as she made the offer, there had been something desperate and pleading in her eyes. This probably wasn’t what the Wolf had meant when he had said she ought to remember her humanity, but Molly couldn’t turn the girl down so easily. If nothing else, she ought to make sure she wouldn’t die mere days after she left.

Hemlock would be all right. He had always been capable of looking after himself -- he wouldn’t have been chosen for this particular mission otherwise -- and a few days more couldn’t mean life or death. If they did, he would already have been shot.

She tried not to think about that, though it was a hard thought to keep at bay.

All wasn’t well, but it wasn’t remotely hopeless, either. She ought to have kept her fingers firmly away from that left pocket. Still, staying in one place a whole day when she’d been getting closer to her goal, and a place that should have been empty at that, made her nervous, and nervousness made her curious.

One little peek couldn’t hurt.

It wasn’t a peek so much as it was jamming her hand into the pocket. Whatever gift Christophe had given her was sewn into the lining, but as her fingers skated around it, she found it felt rather like a necklace. Frowning, she cut at the lining with her knife until there was a hole just large enough for her to reach inside and work it out bead by bead.

It was no necklace at all, she found, but a rosary.

Laughter burst from Molly like a storm, the loudest sound she had made in days, though she didn’t realize that until she heard loud clumping coming from the next room and the girl appeared in the door. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

Molly had just enough self-control left not to laugh, but she couldn’t manage to speak just yet. Instead, she wiped tears from her eyes and wordlessly held up the rosary.

The girl clumped closer, and as she did so, Molly understood why she’d heard her clumping along. She’d developed a new way of walking, one that put a great deal of weight on her uninjured leg even as she tested out the broken one. Provided no one else was close enough to hear, it might have been a good idea, though Molly couldn’t be certain of that. She wished she’d had some proper medical training, not just the field medicine. That would be useful (and had already) but it wasn’t quite as useful at the moment as actually having the knowledge and equipment to set a broken leg.

The girl knelt awkwardly, frowning. “What’s funny about a rosary?”

After one last giggle, Molly was back in control of herself. “Nothing, I suppose. It’s just the way I got it. A friend of mine gave me this coat after I stayed with him a while, and he told me not to look in the left pocket until I was in dire need.”

“Are you?”

“No. I was only curious.” And bored, which was too much of a luxury these days to bother admitting. “I hadn’t expected him to put a rosary there.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” Molly admitted. “I hadn’t much thought about it.”

“Well, what would you have liked, if you could have had anything?” Even with her leg sticking out, she reminded Molly of a child, leaning forward as she awaited her answer.

If she could have had anything at all? Well, Hemlock would have been nice, but even thin as he was, he would never fit in a pocket. Money. Bullets. Another gun. Another knife. A map showing exactly where she had been and exactly where Hemlock would be, or barring that, a map to the border of Germany.

But even knowing the girl was more properly a woman than a girl, Molly couldn’t bring herself to give any of these practical answers. One was really more personal than practical, but she still couldn’t deny that her task would be a great deal easier if she could have ripped open that lining the day after leaving Christophe and had Hemlock step out with some acerbic comment about how cramped the conditions had been. When she looked at the girl, she found herself seeing someone years younger than she really was, maybe as young as she had been at the beginning of the war. Some part of her must have lingered there, and it was to that part Molly spoke.

“Strawberries.”

The girl wrinkled her nose and drew back. Clearly that part of her (if it had existed at all) was not quite so dominant as Molly might have hoped. “Strawberries?”

Molly nodded. “You would’t believe how much I want fresh strawberries, or even strawberry jam.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve lived this long,” the girl muttered, getting laboriously to her feet. “If I’d had someone give me a coat with something for emergencies in the pocket, I’d want a gun. Even if I couldn’t have that, I wouldn’t laugh over a rosary.”

“What would you do, then? If someone had given you a rosary when you had wanted a gun?”

The expression on the girl’s face wasn’t aloof, exactly, but there was something mildly scornful there, something that made her look neither older nor younger but precisely her own age. “I would use it just as well as I would use a gun and pray. You haven’t much faith in anyone but yourself, have you?”

“The greatest person I’ve been able to rely on was myself.”

“One of these days, you won’t be able to rely on her,” the girl said. “That’s what the rosary’s for.” Again, there was that scornful look, as though Molly knew nothing at all. Maybe she didn’t, at least when it came to relying on some greater power. She could turn to God when she had to, but now that she thought of it, every time she had prayed, it had never been from true desperation. After she said “amen”, she was always back to trusting herself again, and she hadn’t thought any way could be better than that.

Truth be told, she still didn’t think any way could be better, but as she stuffed the rosary back into the lining of the pocket, she couldn’t help but think it might serve a better purpose in another’s hand, someone who knew how to use it properly and who would have cause to.

She could no doubt serve a better purpose, too, especially if she was staying here for a time.

Molly found the girl in the kitchen, arranging firewood by the stove. If the girl spent most of her time in the cellar, she might not have a chance to use that wood, especially not in the stove, but just seeing it there made Molly hopeful that the girl had found some hope too.

The girl stopped and stood up, looking down at her hand. “What’s wrong?” Molly asked.

“It’s nothing,” the girl said, but as she turned, Molly saw the blood on her hand.

She hurried across the kitchen, moving quickly enough that she intercepted the girl before she could get far. “You should let me take a look at that,” she said.

“With what?” the girl snapped. “Your rosary?” She made a face and looked away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have --”

“It’s fine.”

Whether it was the firm tone of her voice or the girl’s own guilt, Molly didn’t know, but the girl allowed her to pull her across the kitchen and sit down by the window where there was a good bit of light. She’d filled a pitcher with water from the well earlier, and there was still enough in it to pour over the girl’s hand to clean it. Once the worst of the blood was off, it was clear nothing more was needed. The cut wasn’t deep, and it would probably be all right without soap or alcohol.

Probably. For all Molly knew, she would be leaving the girl to die of infection.

She found a drawer of linens and bound one around her hand. “It should heal up all right,” she said, hoping the world wouldn’t prove her wrong. “I don’t think it needs stitching up.”

“If it does, I’ll do it,” the girl said.

“But --”

“None of that!” The girl snatched her hand away from Molly’s grasp and got unsteadily to her feet. “You helped with my leg and hand, and I’m grateful for that. Don’t you think I’m not. But I’m no child, and I don’t need you here taking care of me. I managed on my own before you showed up, and I can keep managing.”

“I know,” Molly said.

“You don’t,” the girl insisted. “You treat me like I’m five, but I’m not. I’m fifteen. I’ve been taking care of myself for a while now, and I can keep doing so as long as I need to.”

Fifteen. God help her. (God help them both.) If Molly left her here, she really would die. “Is there someplace I can help you go? I don’t like leaving you here on your own.” As the girl crossed her arms and started to glare, she added quickly, “I know you’d have gone somewhere on your own if you could. I just --”

“Just think I’m too young to be alone.”

Yes. “No.”

The girl was still glaring. “It won’t be a disaster. I can take care of myself.”

Molly could tell she wasn’t going to win this argument. She likely wouldn’t be able to win any argument with the girl once she had made up her mind. It would be almost endearing if she weren’t so certain this would wind up with someone’s death, and it might well be the girl’s.

“Let me help you one way before I go,” she said.

The girl didn’t look interested. “How?”

“I want to teach you how to fight.”

“I know --”

“I want to teach you how to fight and win. I want to teach you how to kill.”

The girl looked less certain now, and her arms relaxed slightly. “You’ve had to kill people,” she said, as though considering the idea for the first time.

“Sometimes it’s the only way to survive out there.”

The girl nodded slowly. “What was it like?”

“Like driving a car. The first time, you think you’re going to die. After that, it gets easier every time.” Molly hadn’t yet reached the point where she could do it without thinking. She hoped she never would. “It won’t be easy for you when I leave. You’ll just know the quickest way to do it.”

“With a gun?”

“Knives are less conspicuous. You’ll want the neck, the belly, or the kidneys.” Molly touched each part of her body to show the girl. “It won’t be pretty, and it might not be fast, but it might keep you alive.”

The girl’s nod was firmer this time. “Teach me.”

“I’d never have left without doing so.”


	12. The Search for Hemlock

The girl was nervous around the knife, but only at first. Once Molly had invited her to stab her, she grew much more at ease with it.

The stabs toward Molly weren’t with the knife, of course. Molly had her hold the knife and thrust out again and again, but when she had her try to aim at her body, the girl did it with an empty hand, punching at Molly’s neck and torso. 

The first time, she flinched. “Sorry,” she said, stopping just before her hand reached Molly’s stomach. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Molly said.

“But --”

Molly hit her. Not hard -- it wouldn’t even leave a bruise -- but the girl frowned and rubbed her arm. “Did I hurt you?” she asked.

“No,” the girl said.

“Then you won’t hurt me,” Molly said. “You can’t hesitate when your life’s on the line and you have a real knife in your hand. If you do, you’ll be dead, and none of these lessons will matter.” And she really shouldn’t worry about that quite so much, but now that the thought had struck her that she was at least a little responsible for this girl, she couldn’t just leave until she knew she had done the best she could, even in the limited time she had. The Wolf wouldn’t blame her. No matter what he might say, she was certain he would have done the same in her position. He all but had with her.

The girl didn’t ask why it mattered to her whether she lived or died. That was for the best; Molly had no idea what answer she would give. It mattered because it just did. The girl was alive and ought to stay that way, if at all possible. If not, it at least shouldn’t be Molly’s fault that she had died, either through action or inaction.

That reminded her, of all things, of Christophe and a prayer he had once taught her. _What I have done, and what I have failed to do…_ It was another useful tidbit if she should need to prove herself Catholic, but she hadn’t thought much of it beyond that.

She wouldn’t think much about it now, either. She would just do what had to be done and carry on.

The girl hit her properly the next time, and the time after that. By the time Molly decided they were done, she knew she would have bruises on her front and back. The only place she’d allowed the girl to strike her softly was her neck, and then only because she had no wish to die for a lesson. A hand to her neck, with enough force, could kill as surely as a knife.

“Why are we stopping?” the girl asked, leaning against the wall. “I didn’t really hurt you, did I?”

“I’m fine,” Molly said. “A few bruises are the least of my worries.” They would be even after she had returned to England safely with Hemlock in tow, if she did manage to find him and bring him back. The Wolf would want to hear about what had taken her so long, and even if his pleasure at having her back alive was great enough that he wouldn’t care, the war would still be on. If Hemlock had managed to end it, she would have heard by now.

If Hemlock had managed to end it, he would have gone above and beyond what he was meant to do. He wasn’t here to end the war. He just had to get information, and she had little doubt he had already done that.

He’d better have, or she’d have strong words for him about dragging her out here for nothing but his own skin.

“Then why?” the girl pressed, stepping away from the wall.

“Because you’re tired.”

“I’m not --”

“You look exhausted,” Molly said before the girl could say anything more. “You look like you’re about to drop right where you are. You can’t learn if you’re too tired to even stand.” The girl frowned, and Molly quickly added, “I’m not trying to test your pride. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“How did you know?” the girl asked.

“I was young, once upon a time.”

That brought a smile onto her face, albeit a small one. “It can’t have been that long ago.”

“Sometimes it feels like it was nearly forever,” Molly replied. “Besides, I’ve taught you the basics. If you remember those, they might help you, though I hope you won’t need them.”

“I bet someone told you that when you were my age.”

Molly had been a bit older than the girl when she’d been told those very words, but all the same, she nodded. She’d probably had the very same expression on her face when she’d told the girl that as the Wolf had when he’d said the words to her. She hadn’t thought she would miss him quite so much, but she couldn’t deny the little ache she felt when she thought about his concern and his furrowed brow.

“And did whoever tell you that also tell you not to practice as much as you could?”

The girl couldn’t be that tired, not if she was being so clever, but Molly wasn’t about to be baited into pushing her even further. If she were younger -- if she were the girl’s age -- she might have, but she’d grown older and (she hoped) wiser. Now she only shook her head. “He did, but he also told me to know my limits. If I pushed you now, I’d wear you out, and I don’t want to do that. If you’re tired enough to rest well, that’s good, but you still need to be able to wake up any moment.”

“So you’ll be leaving soon.”

And there it was, the reason the girl hadn’t wanted her to stop. Molly could hear it in the faint quaver of her voice and see it in her eyes. She would never have admitted it herself, and Molly wouldn’t have bothered to ask, but they both knew it was there. The girl didn’t want to be alone.

And who could blame her? Molly wouldn’t want that in her position. No one would, not even the sourest man Molly knew. “I have to,” she said. “I have my own work to do.”

“So you stayed here out of the goodness of your heart.”

Yes, and no. It all depended on how that was meant, and from the way the girl said it, Molly couldn’t quite tell how she meant it. “I stayed because I thought I should, and because it got a roof over my head for a bit. I’ve been sleeping under the stars for too long. I want to remember what it’s like to be human.”

“And to stay out of the eyes of the Germans for a bit.”

And to stay out of the eyes of the Germans for a bit. Molly couldn’t exactly deny that, and she doubted the girl would want her to try. She only nodded, and though little changed on the girl’s expression, there was enough of a shift in her eyes that she knew the girl understood.

“Good luck,” she said.

“You too.”

There wasn’t much more to say, was there? Molly could hardly say she hoped to see the girl again. It was unlikely they would ever find each other, even if Molly tried. She had little reason to come back to the house, and they both knew she wouldn’t bother to. If Molly had her way, she would be back in England. She didn’t know what motive the girl would assume she had, nor did she want to. Something deep inside her made her think it might be dangerous to ask too many questions.

“Do you at least want to stay one more night?” the girl asked. “You could rest and have breakfast before you go.”

The same instinct that kept her from asking any questions also prompted her to turn down the offer, but Molly decided against it. Even if it was dangerous to get too close to the girl, this wouldn’t be where the danger truly lay. “Yes,” she said, “but I’ll leave early. I want to travel as far as I can before I have to stop for the night.” If she did indeed stop at night. There had been some nights where she had pushed on beyond what she knew to be wise, trying to get as far as she could before she absolutely had to stop.

“I’ll make sure you have a good breakfast, then,” the girl said with a smile. “You’ll want to have all your strength for your journey, wherever you’re going.”

There was a silent question in her words, one Molly wouldn’t answer. Thankfully, the girl didn’t press her any further.

Maybe it would have been a good breakfast, and maybe they would have sat together and talked over a hearty meal. That was the image that kept waking Molly in the middle of the night, and while she couldn’t have said that was why she left, she did have a nagging feeling that it was a part of her decision.

That feeling nagged her as she got out of bed just before dawn and gathered her things. She had already done most of the work the night before, which meant she took less than a minute to be ready. She had slept on and off the whole night through, waking from nonsensical dreams featuring kippers and the girl, but she somehow felt perfectly rested and ready to go. Her mind was as clear as it had ever been, and she crept through the house to the door.

The girl was still asleep. Molly breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t see her sneaking away, nor would she see that she was taking some of the food they had brought up from the cellar the day before. She didn’t take much, but she still felt guilty for taking anything of hers. It didn’t matter that the girl would have given her some regardless. Taking something without asking was far different from accepting it as a gift.

 _Well, of course it is,_ she thought. _One of those is stealing._

It sounded like the sort of thing she would have to explain to Hemlock. The thought almost made her laugh, but she pushed aside the impulse. That would certainly wake the girl.

The sun had just begun to rise when Molly left the house. So far as she could tell, no one was around to see her, but that wasn’t enough to relax her. She was still wary as she looked about, and she paused by the door, reaching into her pocket. 

The rosary was still there, and her fingers curled around the beads. She couldn’t tell just from feeling them which was meant to spur which prayer, but it didn’t much matter now. She had never used it, and now she never would.

That was probably for the best.

Molly wrapped the rosary around the inner doorknob and closed the door. Then, a moment later, she was off, headed to the east and Hemlock.


	13. Across the Edge of the World

When she felt the hand on her shoulder, Molly’s first thought was that she had overslept. It didn’t take long for her to dismiss that notion. She hadn’t overslept since her childhood, and she wasn’t likely to start now, with the Wolf breathing down the back of her neck and a constant sense of duty and expectation weighing on her. Any moment, she might be summoned for an assignment. 

So she woke with a start at the hand on her shoulder, sitting up and grabbing that hand just above the wrist. It was still dark, but she imagined she could see the Wolf smiling.

“Good job, Tulip,” he said, and now she was certain. She could hear it in his voice. “That’s how I raised you.”

Raised indeed. Molly was too old to roll her eyes, but if the Wolf went on treating her like some teenage daughter, she might change her mind about that. Instead, she got out of bed, wrapping a robe around herself and following him out into the hall.

It was rather lighter out here, with the dawn light seeping in through the bay window at the far end. Molly didn’t know whose house this was, but she had grown rather fond of her training grounds. It was far nicer than any place she had been before, and if it weren’t full of constant reminders that she was at war, she might well have grown to enjoy living there was well.

Of course, there was nowhere she would have been free of the war. Had she stayed in London, there would have been the bombs to deal with, and she suspected worse would be on the way before it was all over. It was like a fever, some said. It had to get worse before it got better.

The trouble was that a fever was natural. As far as Molly was concerned, war never was.

The Wolf looked as though he might have been ravaged by a fever, Molly realized as her thoughts turned in that direction. Perhaps it was nothing but the gray light, but his face looked paler than usual, and his hair more dotted with silver. She rather suspected if she had a photograph of how he had looked when she first arrived to compare to him now, she would have thought ten years had passed. For all she knew, she looked much the same. She had noticed a few more lines on her face than she’d had before, and though her hair was fairer than the Wolf’s, she’d found a dozen or so gray strands.

Maybe he’d send her into France in disguise as an old woman. At this rate, she wouldn’t need much more than a little talcum powder for the journey across the Channel.

“I would have thought you’d be the sort to sleep dressed,” he said. It was an odd morning greeting, and Molly folded her arms across her chest, bringing her robe a little further closed. Her nightclothes were perfectly modest, but it still felt odd to have a man notice them. She never had before, and she doubted she’d have any reason to in the future.

“I can dress in a minute’s notice if you need it,” she said.

“I’ve no doubt of that,” the Wolf said. “You’re like that American we had a few weeks back. Part of a long tradition, he said. Minutemen, from the Revolutionary War.” He snorted. “I believe you a hell of a lot more than I believe him.”

Molly waited for him to finish speaking. The Wolf was silent for a moment, then seemed to understand just what she was waiting for.

“Hemlock’s ready.”

Molly’s heart beat double time at the words. She couldn’t tell whether anything showed on her face. She hoped it didn’t. (She all but prayed.) “And you’re sending me?”

“He asked for you. By name.”

Double time was utterly forgotten. Molly’s heart was a hummingbird, racing away against her ribs. She crossed her arms tighter, trying to keep it firmly within herself. She was being ridiculous. Hemlock would likely have accepted anyone. She was just the most useful person who happened to be around. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

But the Wolf had said he asked for her by name. The Wolf had never lied to her before. Why would he lie now?

She didn’t dare ask which name he had asked for.

“When do I go?” she asked. 

“As soon as possible. We’ve got your papers ready and waiting, and if the weather holds, no one will see you fly over the channel.”

Molly didn’t bother to wait for an order, or even for permission. She nodded sharply, turned on her heel, and all but ran back into her room, flinging off her robe as soon as she was in. She hadn’t even bothered to close the door.

She counted every single one of the forty-five seconds it took her to throw on her clothes. They were women’s clothes, notoriously tricky, but Rose had gone about stitching every female operative a custom set that were, she promised, far easier to put on and get off. She refused to explain her secrets, and Molly didn’t bother to ask. She only thanked whatever saint that Irishwoman had chosen for herself that she had steady hands, for the clothes were as miraculous as Rose had promised they would be. They went on as easily as the nightgown (another creation of Rose’s) came off, and soon she was back out in the hall, already pinning up her hair.

The Wolf looked her up and down quickly, his eyes appraising. “You’re quicker than Jimson ever was,” he said. “Maybe we ought to start talking about minutewomen instead.”

He probably wasn’t being patronizing, but Molly still couldn’t help feeling a little irritated by his smile. Luckily for her, his face was serious once more very soon. He started down the hall, and Molly followed, moving quickly to keep up. When he got particularly excited, the Wolf tended to forget just how much longer his legs were than hers.

“We can’t get you to Germany, of course,” he said as Molly sped up a hop. The Wolf didn’t seem to notice, but she wouldn’t have put it past him to spot that extra step. Either way, he didn’t slow. “Too dangerous, for you and the pilot. We’ll get you to the northern shore of France, and you’ll have to trek over.”

“Will I reach Hemlock in time?”

“You’ll have to.” The Wolf’s expression was grim, but it lightened before Molly could start to worry too much. “He’s Hemlock. If he had to, he could probably get a plane from the Führer himself and fly back here on his own.”

“With all due respect, sir, why doesn’t he?”

She half expected the Wolf to say it was just an exaggeration, but he only frowned and said, “Damned if I know, Tulip. Maybe the petrol rationing in Germany is as bad as it is here and asking for fuel would be a step too far. All I know is that he asked for you, and that’s what he’ll get.”

She could hear in his voice the words _Don’t let me down._ She almost wished he would say it aloud so she could assure him that she wouldn’t.

It was likely for the best that didn’t happen. The Wolf might well see the sentiment behind it, and he was not a sentimental man.

“You won’t be entirely on your own,” he went on. “We’ve got men -- and women -- all through France. I can give you a partial list, at least enough to get you started. They’ll pass you along to whoever’s next. You’ll be perfectly safe, Tulip. I’ll have you passed along hand-to-hand, safe as houses.”

Molly refrained from pointing out that plenty of houses weren’t particularly safe these days. The Wolf wouldn’t appreciate the reminder. She didn’t particularly appreciate it either. The bombings weren’t the sort of thing she liked to think about. They probably weren’t the sort of thing anyone wanted to think about, but they were impossible to avoid. She had to remember what was happening, here and elsewhere in Europe. It was the reason she was here.

The Wolf brought her right to the airstrip, where a young man waited beside a small plane. It looked as though a moderate wind would tear it apart, but Molly trusted the pilot. She had to.

“Ready, Asphodel?” the Wolf called.

“Aye, sir,” Asphodel said, raising a hand in a lazy salute. He likely shouldn’t be able to get away with that, but the Wolf let it slide.

“You’ll be bringing Tulip over the Channel,” the Wolf said. “No pickups, no stopping. Get her to a safe place and bring her down. Once her feet are on the ground, come straight back.”

“It’d be safer for both of us to do a jump,” Asphodel said. Molly’s heart pounded, but she nodded quickly. Little as she wanted to jump out of a plane, it would be quicker, and Asphodel could simply turn and head back to England. A landing put them both in more danger of capture.

“Follow your best judgment,” the Wolf said, “but she needs to land safely. Do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

Asphodel’s smiling face had faced into seriousness, though Molly couldn’t be certain whether that was the effect of the Wolf’s instructions or simply his much more somber face. He had the sort of glare that could scare the good cheer from a fairy, or so she’d heard from an Army doctor who she thought had been flirting with her in a pub one evening. She couldn’t be entirely sure; he’d also spent a great deal of time telling her how much he loved his wife.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered. He went off back to the front, and she went back to her training. All he knew about her was her first name, and that was common enough that they would never see one another again.

The Wolf took Molly’s arm and pulled her aside. “There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” he said. “I saved it for last so it would be what you remembered most.”

Molly nodded. She had always known this was coming. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

“I know.” He took her other arm, then, holding her out before him as though they were about to embrace or had just stepped back from one. “That isn’t what I meant. What I want to say, Tulip, is just this: Come back alive.” For a moment, she thought she saw emotion in his eyes, genuine fondness and affection, but it was gone with the next blink. “That’s an order. I’ll be very cross with you if you have the gall to disobey.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Good girl.” He patted her shoulder, then gently shoved her toward the plane. Asphodel helped her into the plane, then helped her into her parachute.

“Have you ever done a jump before?” he asked in a low voice, as though the Wolf were just behind them, listening in on their conversation.

“I’ve been trained on them,” Molly said.

Asphodel grinned. “Well, it’s going to be a lot scarier than that. But don’t worry. I’ll tell you a heroic story on the way over. It’s the best good luck charm I know. You can’t possibly die if you’re ready to be a hero.”


	14. A Time for Weakness, A Time for Strength

The next house Molly found really was abandoned, which was a relief. The last thing she wanted was to keep being caught up in someone else’s troubles. There was a place for kindness and compassion, but that place was much harder to find in wartime. The Wolf might have told her to remember her humanity, but he wouldn’t want her to forget her duty, either.

It wasn’t just a duty. Though she didn’t like to believe it, she still felt some love for Hemlock. It wasn’t an easy thing to shake, especially now. If he were the one coming after her, she would no doubt feel it just as strongly.

More strongly, really. He would be coming after her like a prince rescuing the damsel in distress. There weren’t many other stories where the reverse was true.

(Katie Crackernuts, a voice in the back of her mind supplied. Molly groaned and rolled over onto her side. Leave it to her mind to keep her up when she had the best chance to rest she’d found in days.)

Molly had never been sickly as a child, but perhaps that was precisely why she so loathed getting sick. She had never had much of a chance to get used to it, so whenever illness did strike, she was reminded all over again how miserable it was.

At least this was only a cold. She couldn’t imagine trying to fight her way across Europe if she were laid low with the flu or measles.

(But she was safe from measles. She’d had that as a child, along with half the town, and little Gracie David had died of it. They were lucky, everyone said. There’d been only one death. Some of the older kids wouldn’t stop talking about that one year when about a dozen children had died.)

Molly had found the house just as the illness started to set in. She’d been sniffling a great deal but had thought that came only from being out so much in the cold. Her nose had been stuffed up on and off through France, to the point where she’d hardly bothered to think about it. She washed out her handkerchief when she could, used the hem of her shirt when she had to, and carried on. It was amazing how quickly you could get used to doing without small necessities when there was no other choice.

It was when she started sneezing that she began to worry, and by the next morning she had started to feel feverish. She had a bit of food tucked away, so spending a day in bed wouldn’t threaten her with starvation, but she couldn’t help worrying.

What if she couldn’t find any food the next day, and was too weak to kill anything the day after that?

What if this was no cold but influenza?

What if those footsteps she heard outside belonged to Nazis?

The thought jolted her from the half-sleep she had managed to drift into, and she sat up, listening. At first she thought she must have imagined them. She had been nearly sleeping, and herpas she had done nothing but dream the footsteps. Her dreams had been troublesome, even if she rarely screamed in the night any more. She had assumed some part of her knew it wouldn’t be safe. It was the same part that only ever let her sleep lightly, even now. 

Unfortunately, that meant dreams and reality all too often converged, at least in the brief span of time before she was truly awake. Molly sat frozen, holding her breath, straining her ears in an attempt to hear anything at all. It hadn’t been the Germans, she told herself. It had been a Frenchman, someone from the Resistance. It had been Christophe, tracking her down somehow. It was Hemlock himself, having decided she was taking too long and somehow figuring out exactly where she was. It was no more impossible than anything else he’d worked out.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was nothing at all.

That last hope was dashed a moment later, when she heard the footsteps again. Molly let out a long, slow breath and slipped out of bed, crouching on the floor. The bedroom had a small window, and while it was possible no one would look up at it, she thought it best not to take any chances. She was getting closer to Germany every day. She couldn’t die _now_.

She crept across the floor like a spider, balancing on her fingers and toes, body as low to the ground as she could manage. It was an unsettling way to move, but it got her to the window without her having made a sound. With her careful, furtive crawling, she could avoid the creaking floorboards beneath her.

Once at the window, she poked her head up quickly, then ducked down once she’d had a chance to look through the glass. She hadn’t seen much, but she’d seen enough.

There were Germans out there. Black-uniformed Germans.

Molly scrambled to her pack, trying to ignore the pulsing in her head. It was just a small headache, brought on by just a small fever. There was nothing to fret about. She’d had worse. The measles, and influenza twice, and whatever it had been that made her feel as though her stomach was tearing itself apart when she was a child. This was nothing more than a cold. She could fight this.

She had to, especially if she was to fight Nazis as well. She would _not_ let herself be defeated simply because she happened to have a bad case of the sniffles.

Within a few minutes, she was ready. She had a knife out, her pack hidden away, and a nervous, unspoken prayer in the back of her throat. It felt odd to turn to prayer now when she was so determined to rely on herself, but asking Saint Joan for just a bit of aid hardly felt out of place. If any saint was going to help her, even an Englishwoman who wasn’t even Catholic, it was her, for France’s sake.

It might have gone a little better if she had known any prayer beyond _Please help me,_ but hopefully Joan would understand. 

Molly sniffled and pulled a knife from her pack. She didn’t need anything else, really. What she’d taught that girl was the truth. If you had a knife and enough skill, you could kill just about anyone.

Unless they shot you first.

_Please, Joan, don’t let them shoot me first._

She sniffled again and wiped at her nose. She could still remember when she would have found that disgusting, but that seemed like ages ago, back in the world of fresh handkerchiefs and frequent laundry service. It was harder to care about such niceties now. It was harder to care about anything that wasn’t survival now.

And, God and Saint Joan help her, she _was_ going to survive. She had come much too far to do anything else.

The Germans had entered the house by the time she crept to the door of the bedroom. Just pushing open her door a crack was enough to give her the scent of fresh air coming in from below. Her nose prickled, not just from her cold, and her heart pounded. With her senses alive like this, she felt as much animal as human. (Hemlock would have reminded her that all humans were animals. For once, it might have been useful advice rather than an irritating reminder of his sense of superiority.) She only wished she could determine whether she was predator or prey.

Predator, she decided. She wouldn’t allow herself to be anything else.

With the grace of a cat, Molly Hooper crept down the stairs.

Sometime later (much later), she would commend herself. She really had been graceful, even if thinking of her grace as catlike might have been just a little too self-congratulatory. Still, she made it down the stairs without tumbling, or even without alerting anyone to her presence. It was possible she had just been found by the most clueless Nazis in all of Europe, but she had to admit she preferred the thought that she could win out against any adversary the world could throw at her.

Of course she preferred to think thus. Anyone would. It was human nature. Lions didn’t care about whether they had brought down the strongest zebra.

(Unless they did. Molly’s hand tightened on her knife. This was no time to grow distracted.)

One German had entered so far. Scouting out the place, no doubt. Seeing if there was anything worth taking, or if there was any threat. From the look of the gun in his hand, he must have expected one, though not a very large one. He wouldn’t have come alone if he had thought there was any chance he might not walk out alive.

And what would he have thought if he had seen her? Just woken, cheeks pale with sleep under a flush of fever, hair tangled and knotted, only half dressed? He wouldn’t have bothered with a gun at all. He would have come in to kill her with his bare hands. Hell, he might well have tried glaring her to death to give her a sporting chance.

It wasn’t really a funny image, but at the same time it was hilarious. Molly choked back most of her laughter, but a stifled snort still escaped her.

It was enough. The man turned to catch where the sound had come from, and Molly knew there was nothing else she could do. Instinct and training both spurred her forward, and she lunged, driving her knife into his ribs before he could shout out a word of warning to his comrades. She wasn’t quick enough to stop him from firing, but she at least didn’t feel any pain. It would come later, she knew, but for now she had at least that small mercy. It was enough, for now.

The German crumpled around her knife, falling, and Molly scrambled back, letting go of the blade. As soon as she did so, she could hear the Wolf’s voice in the back of her head. _Idiot girl! Never let go of your weapon. Do that and you might as well sign your own death sentence._

The voice gave good advice, even if it wasn’t properly the Wolf’s. He would never have called her an idiot girl; any scorn of that sort would have remained in his disapproving glare.

But he would have told her she needed a weapon. She did, and she felt the lack of it against her palm. It felt almost as though something was missing, but in place of her knife, she grabbed the German’s revolver. It felt right in her hand, just as right as the knife had, and it was a matter of instinct to check to see whether it was loaded.

The good soldier had done his duty. There was a bullet in each chamber, and Molly fought the urge to laugh. She’d heard enough whispered horror stories from other agents to know what would happen if she gave into hysteria. She couldn’t remember the name of the agent who had gone mad, but it would come to her. One of them would, at some point. There were many stories passed around. She didn’t want to become one of them.

For all she knew, she already was. Surely by now someone would be wondering why Tulip hadn’t come back.

If she could only survive this, she would tell them all why herself.

Molly didn’t dare go to the door. Too much of her body would be exposed. Instead, she crept along to a window, where she still had a bit of a view. The Germans would be able to see her as well, but she tried to convince herself she didn’t care. She could always duck down if she had to. The door wouldn’t afford her that advantage.

Molly breathed in, breathed out. She sighted the first soldier, squeezed the trigger, and fired.


	15. Far From Home

The first thing Molly knew was that Asphodel was dead. Asphodel was dead, and she was alive, and oh god oh god surely the Germans would find her now if she kept lying here on the ground. Even looking dead wouldn’t be enough to save her. They’d drag her off for interrogation anyway or just put a bullet in her head, and either way she’d be useless to Hemlock. Worse than useless, because if she was interrogated she might just share everything, and then they’d find him out…

She was on the ground. That was the second thing Molly knew.

She really ought to get up off the ground.

Molly’s eyes opened to darkness, but she wasn’t worried. She already knew it was night. It had been night when the plane crashed --

The plane!

She sat up, though as soon as she did so her head pulsed and she had to fight the urge to vomit. Everything hurt so badly that she couldn’t at first tell where the pain was, and she sat still for several minutes, trying to breathe through it. She was going to die. She was in far too much pain to survive.

She opened her eyes to see the plane lying a quarter mile away. Maybe further. It was impossible to tell in the darkness. She could only tell it was the plane because she knew the hulking shape and could make out a few details from the flickering fire burning it away.

Asphodel would still be in there. There was no point in walking (crawling?) over to see whether he was alive. No one could have survived a crash like that. 

_“Jump for it, Tulip! I’ll try to land.”_

Well, land he had, and Molly felt sick at the thought. He should have tried to jump for it, too. It would have done as much good as his trying to land the plane. Whatever his good intentions had been, they’d only gotten him killed.

She did vomit, then, but all that came up was bile. She tried to tell herself that was for the best. It was over quickly, and all she had to do was wipe her mouth on her sleeve and spit once in an attempt to clear away the sour taste. It didn’t work as well as she had hoped, but she was on her feet quickly, peering ahead at the plane. For just a moment, she thought she saw a bit of movement, but it was nothing more than a trick of the light. Asphodel was truly dead. There was nothing she -- or anyone -- could do for him.

Molly wavered on her feet. The pain still came from everywhere, but she was better able to find where she was truly injured now. Her head, and her side, and her left ankle. She forced herself not to close her eyes. That alone might not be enough to send her to sleep, but she had to be careful. Falling unconscious could be deadly.

She remembered Cowslip’s words about concussions, though thankfully not in Cowslip’s voice. It was just a list of symptoms, something for her to focus on and keep herself awake.

Headache. Nausea. Change in personality.

Death.

And she also very likely had broken ribs and a turned ankle. Mustn’t forget those. A turned ankle could kill her just as easily by slowing her, and if she wasn’t careful, her ribs could pierce a lung. That, Cowslip had told her, would be a slow death as she drowned on her own blood.

There were many slow deaths she could suffer. She hadn’t really thought about just how many until now, though.

Hopefully Asphodel’s death had been quick. She prayed it was, though she didn’t know how much good praying would do.

It would do her better, at least, to stay alive. Her and Hemlock both; he would be waiting for her.

He had asked for her. By name.

Molly couldn’t exactly run, but she limped away from the plane as quickly as she could. She remembered roughly where Asphodel had planned to set her down, and though her head spun, she thought she could orient herself to go roughly south. There was a town there, with someone who could help her. 

But what was his name? She couldn’t get to him if she didn’t know his name.

Her name, maybe. She could as easily be looking for a woman.

It would come to her, in time. She sped up, though she winced with every step. The first thing she had to do was survive. Only when she knew she could do that would she worry about anything else.

* * *

She made it well out of sight from the burning plane before she had to stop. Her ankle throbbed in time with her head and chest, and there was nothing she could do but drop to the ground. At least she’d found a wooded area. The trees would give her some cover, though not as much as she might have wished. She would have preferred to have a roof over her head and walls around her.

She would have preferred to be safely back in England, before all this began.

Molly curled up on the ground, exhausted. If there were any German soldiers about, she’d be easy prey for them. Fear gnawed at her stomach. It was all too easy to imagine what the Wolf would say if he could see the situation she was in now.

But it wasn’t the Wolf’s voice she heard in her head.

_“What do you say, Tulip? Do you want to hear a story or not? I’ve got plenty of good ones.”_

She groaned and closed her eyes. That was all she would ever have of him now. A false name, an attempt at good cheer, and half a story.

Sleep was slow in coming. When it did come, it was light and fitful, and Molly woke feeling worse than she had the night before. She was stiff and exhausted, and it would have been almost a blessing to have died in the middle of the night. At least then she wouldn’t have to feel this way.

But it was light, and light meant hope, or it would have had she not seen someone standing above her, looking down with a quizzical stare.

“Who are you?” he asked. In French, of course. Thank goodness she was able to understand that, even with her head pulsing as it did. Thank goodness he asked a simple question, one she could give a simple answer to.

“Marguerite,” she said through a dry mouth. “Marguerite Savatier.”

The man knelt beside her, reaching out a hand, but when Molly flinched back (as much as she could, anyway), he froze. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you. You’re safe here.”

She wasn’t safe anywhere. Molly shook her head, unable to find the words to answer.

“You’ll be safe with me,” the man said, edging closer. “My name’s Christophe. I don’t live far from here. I could take you to my home if you like.” He frowned. “Are you hurt? I could get a doctor.”

Molly shook her head harder, though that made it pulse all the harder. 

The man -- Christophe -- lowered his hand, but he remained where he was. He looked for all the world like a man approaching a strange dog. Molly didn’t like to think she’d have bitten him had he strayed too close, but she well might have tried. At that moment, there was nothing else she could have done. She doubted she had the strength to hit him. She certainly couldn’t have managed a kick.

“No doctors,” she said after several seconds. “I can’t…”

His eyes widened in understanding, though just what he understood, she couldn’t have said. At least he understood something. That meant he wasn’t likely to ask questions, and any he did ask she could probably find a way to answer, once her thoughts were clear enough.

If she stayed that long. She would be on her way as soon as she could, and if what he understood had anything to do with danger, he wouldn’t mind at all. He might even be the one to send her off.

“No doctors,” he repeated. “But you should rest somewhere better than here. May I take you to my house?”

She didn’t have anywhere else to go. She didn’t have anyone else who could look after her, even if she managed to remember the name. (It started with an M, didn’t it? An M or an A, she was certain.) She couldn’t reach him from here, and now she did remember the Wolf’s words, and she heard them in his voice.

_“Come back alive. That’s an order.”_

Hidden in that order was another one: _Do whatever it takes._

Molly nodded, and Christophe picked her up, cradling her against his chest. She was rather small, but not so small that she could be carried easily, and for a moment she marveled at how strong he was. The moment passed quickly, and she drifted into a half-doze as he bore her away from the trees, lulled by the steady beating of his heart and the sway of his body as he walked. For a few moments, she feared he might drop her, but that fear passed, and she relaxed against him.

Asphodel was dead, and she was lost, but at least there was one man in the world willing to give help when it was needed.

Molly couldn’t have said how long she slept, nor even how often she woke. She only knew she did wake briefly from time to time, and Christophe was always there. He held a bowl of warm broth to her lips, and helped her walk to a privy, and read to her in a quiet enough voice that she couldn’t gather all the words. It sounded like poetry, or perhaps a prayer, and the thought that he was praying for her made her chest ache in some inexplicable way.

But then she did wake, for good, and there was sunlight streaming into a bedroom. Her head felt much better and her ankle was bound, though her chest still ached with every breath. Christophe sat beside her, his head leaning against the wall. He looked as though he was half-asleep, and Molly tried not to wake him as she sat up. If she was careful enough, she could creep out without his ever realizing she was leaving.

As she rose, a sharper pain ran through her chest, and Christophe’s eyes snapped open. “You’re awake,” he said. “Thank God. I thought I would have to get a doctor no matter what you said.”

“I’m fine,” Molly said. “But I really ought to go.”

“You’ve only rested for a day,” Christophe said. “Will you be able to walk?”

“I’ll have to try.” Only a day? It had felt like longer. “Thank you for your help, but I can’t stay any longer. It’s dangerous, for both of us.”

“I’ve faced danger before,” Christophe said. “Everyone must, these days. You look as though you’ve faced more than most.” He got to his feet and held out his hands. After a moment, Molly took them, and he helped her out of the bed. “May I make one request?”

“One,” Molly said. “I won’t promise I’ll say yes.”

“I think you will.” His smile was teasing, almost friendly. It wasn’t at all the sort of thing she thought she’d see in France. “Will you let me give you breakfast?”

Her stomach answered before her mouth could, and she was certain Christophe had heard it growl. “Yes,” she said, trying to ignore how his smile broadened at that. “But then I really have to go. There’s someone I need to meet.”

Nothing at all could make her stay in this house. Not even her ankle.


	16. A Touch of Iron

Glass shattered. Molly didn’t flinch, but the German soldier she had aimed at turned. He wasn’t able to turn far; Molly’s bullet caught him in the chest, and he fell.

Breathe. Keep breathing. Fire again.

It was just like target practice back home, but with actual living people rather than scarecrows dressed all in black. It was a little too easy to not notice that, though, and to simply fire again. Another soldier fell, and by now they were moving, but Molly wasn’t about to let something as unimportant as that stop her from killing as many of them as she could. She got a third before the rest managed to get to cover, but he had only been wounded. He’d likely die of it, but it would take him a while, and he’d be screaming in agony until it did.

Good. He deserved it.

One of the soldiers had gone toward the house, and Molly turned just in time to see him barge through the door. He shouted _something_ at her, but it was something she didn’t quite catch. She’d learned German in addition to French, but right now French and English were all she could hold onto. If there’d been a little more time, she might have been able to figure out what he was saying, but he already had a gun out, and Molly had already brought her own up in response.

He fired. She fired. Both shots rang in her ears along with the ones she’d fired before, and for several seconds she could only kneel, gasping. She’d hit the man; he had already dropped his gun and was bent double over a bloody hole in his stomach. But had he hit her?

He must have. From this close, he couldn’t have missed. She was dead. She was dead and she didn’t know it yet.

The German fell, and though a part of her knew he was falling in a perfectly ordinary way, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was moving very slowly. The whole world was moving slowly, and she knew why. It was because she had been shot. She was going to die, and at any moment her life would flash before her eyes. At any moment, she would be gone.

Molly closed her eyes. She heard the German hit the floor, heard her own sharp breathing. She could even hear her heart beating. If she was going to die, it wouldn’t be quite yet.

She opened one eye, then the other. The German wasn’t moving. She still could, and as she got to her feet, her legs trembled. It was from fear, not from pain. She could recognize the difference between the two, even shaken as she was.

The shakiness was starting to fade, and as she picked up her gun, she was already beginning to feel more like herself. Still sick and feverish, but her heart wasn’t racing as fast as it had before, and she was starting to think clearly. She couldn’t stay in this house much longer. Maybe it had just been a random patrol, or maybe they came by here often. Either way, when the next patrol came by, they would see the bodies, and they would know something had happened. She would have to be far away from here when that happened, even if that meant farther to the east.

Molly hurried back upstairs and grabbed her pack. Eastward it was, then. She could get over her cold on the way there.

* * *

Her cold didn’t ease up much, at least not at first. The weather was growing worse, and she woke every morning with a stuffed-up nose and a cough. She stifled the latter as best she could, but there wasn’t much she could do for the former except try not to inhale at the wrong time and start gagging on mucus.

At least her fever had gone down. That was something she could feel grateful for, if she could feel gratitude for anything in this war. It didn’t even properly break. She just woke one morning feeling much better than she had in days. When she pressed her forearm to her brow, it felt cool, and she wiped away the last traces of sweat from her hairline. She was going to make it through this. Nothing could stop her now.

And day by day, she grew closer to Germany.

* * *

Molly was days late to her rendezvous. 

_Days_ was putting it rather nicely. She was weeks late, and by the time she got to Luxembourg, she already knew Hemlock wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t have been able to stay long, even clever as he was. Surely no man could come up with a decent reason to stay at the border. He’d have gone along wherever the Reich sent him, or he’d have been caught out and shot.

Or he’d have headed back to England on his own, successful or not, and her journey up to now would have proved utterly useless. She might as well have been found and shot herself.

She might as well have stayed with Christophe.

If Hemlock wasn’t there waiting for her, she wouldn’t stick around long enough for anyone else to find her. When he wasn’t at the rendezvous at the right hour (even if it was the wrong day), she turned and headed for Thionville.

She wouldn’t be much safer there, she knew. The Germans had control of the city, and while she might find a friendly face somewhere about, there was no promise that they would be willing to put themselves at risk just for her. She couldn’t blame them for wanting to put their own safety above hers, but she had to admit she wouldn’t have minded a little altruism.

She wouldn’t have minded even a comfortable place to sleep and a couple full meals (one before and one after, but she couldn’t afford to be so picky), but she wasn’t likely to get those any more than she was a bit of generosity. She would just have to try surviving as best she could and hope she could make it to a radio operator. Now that she had completely lost track of her contacts, it would be nearly impossible. That was the whole point of such secrecy: they could find one another, but no one else would find them.

The Wolf would hear about it when she got back to England. She had little doubt he would be glad to hear any complaints at all she had if it meant she had gotten back alive.

(Her cold must not have entirely faded away. The thought of his being glad to see her back alive made her nose prickle, but she hoped it was mere coincidence. She wasn’t the type to get emotional over trivialities.)

Molly made it to the village without incident, thank goodness. If she’d still had her rosary, she would have been holding it now, running her thumb over the beads even if she didn’t start praying. She rather suspected she would have prayed at least a little, though. Even now she was silently thanking Saint Joan for seeing her back into France.

She added a request for Saint Joan to look after Hemlock. He might not need it as much as she and would never admit it if he did, but someone had to keep an eye on him, too. Until she could, she’d just have to rely on Joan.

Her mother would have had a conniption if she saw her now, she thought, and nearly smiled. It was a little ridiculous to imagine good little Anglican Molly Hooper praying to a French saint. It was very ridiculous to imagine good little Molly Hooper stealing through France in an attempt to do what plenty would have considered a man’s job. Really, The Wolf should have gone after Hemlock. He likely would have if he weren’t so necessary back home.

And as she’d said when she first joined the SOE, people didn’t look twice at a woman. People often didn’t look twice at _her_. (Hemlock certainly hadn’t.) There were some advantages to being plain, even if she had spent too long noting the disadvantages to realize it might be helpful sometimes. At least she hadn’t realized it too late, and now as she walked through the streets, she kept her gaze straight ahead and acted as though she knew exactly where she was going. Be nondescript, don’t look lost, don’t look English. She didn’t know if she would have said she was good at the last of those, but she could at least say she was good at the first two. She must be at least passably French, for she hadn’t been stopped yet.

An inn, she decided. She’d go to an inn and mention her code name to a few people to see if anyone noticed. If they did and weren’t the wrong people, she might find someplace safe to stay. If they didn’t… well, hopefully if they didn’t no one would turn her in to any of the SS officers she spotted in the streets.

Her stomach clenched and her heart rabbited against her chest at every black uniform she saw, and she had to keep her face carefully schooled to avoid showing any emotion. She was calm. She was a French woman. She had seen Nazis before, and she didn’t have to jump every time she did. After all, the last time she had seen them, she had killed every last one, and taht had been while she had a fever. Surely she could face them now, while she was well.

Surely she could face a whole town full of Nazis and not be overpowered. Christ, she was in over her head. She needed to head back east, into the countryside. She needed to regroup. Hemlock would be fine. He would either be fine or he was already dead. Those were the only two options she would accept.

The first inn she found was probably not the only one in town, but it would suit her purposes well enough. It was nearly empty which meant the people inside would be more likely to remember her, but she wasn’t too worried about that. They would remember a stranger who came in and asked about tulips, and unless the Germans had figured out their code names, that would be innocuous.

But someone could have been tortured. Monkshood, poor soul, or Hemlock himself. Her stomach clenched again at the thought, and even the reminder that he was either all right or already dead didn’t help. If he was dead, he would have been tortured beforehand. If he was dead, she was completely fucked.

The woman needlessly sweeping the floor had fair hair going gray before its time, and she gave Molly a suspicious look as she entered. The handful of men and women sitting about tables glanced over at her as well but then turned their attention back to each other.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked. Her hands tightened around the handle of her broom, and for a moment Molly wondered whether she meant to swing it up and strike her.

“I just need a chance to catch my breath,” she said, and managed a weary smile. “I’ve been hard at work all day.”

The woman nodded sympathetically. “You’ll have to pay for a drink, but chairs are free. It’d hardly be right to charge when I’ve hardly anyone using them.”

Grateful, Molly sank into a chair, but she didn’t have long to rest before the door burst open and a trio of SS officers stormed in. Her body tensed, but there was nowhere for her to run. If she did, she likely wouldn’t make it far before she was shot, and then everyone in the inn would be questioned. They hadn’t done anything at all to deserve it.

“Everyone against the wall,” a lean, pale man barked in heavily accented French. “Have your papers ready.”

Molly pulled hers from her pack as she moved to stand with the others. She scarcely dared the breathe but did her best to keep nearly calm as the pale man went down the line, looking over everyone’s papers. At least now was a reasonable time to be afraid. Everyone else was.

When the man reached her, he scarcely even glanced at her papers before grabbing her arm. “With me,” he growled, before turning to the other two and snapping something at them in German. Molly couldn’t follow his words; her blood was rushing in her ears as the man pulled her to the back door. All she could think was that she hadn’t thought she would die just for sitting down and that it was somehow right to be killed by a man with eyes as cold as chips of iron.


	17. The Consequence is Hanging There

The man led Molly out of the inn and into a little street that ran along the back. He was going to shoot her out here. There was something wrong with her papers, something no one else had noticed so far, and he was going to kill her over it. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. She wasn’t the luckiest woman in the SOE. Someone was bound to have caught her out at some point.

She just hoped it would be quick. She didn’t want to have to suffer any more than she already had, not that even that had been much. Far worse could have happened to her. Far worse had already happened to so many.

The man’s grip on her arm was as tight as steel, and Molly forced her spine to be just as firm. It wouldn’t matter in the end, really. He wouldn’t think anything of her after sending her body away to be disposed of. He might not even think of her then. She would already be fading from his memory, and what little remained of her there wouldn’t be how firmly she had stood or how powerful she had seemed. It would be that she was dead, and good riddance to another spy.

Molly swallowed hard. She was going to die. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want any of this.

They didn’t stop just outside the inn as she had expected. Instead, the man led her further on, all but dragging her through town. They kept to back roads and quiet streets, and those few people that did see them cast their gazes away either in pity or fear. Molly told herself she would rather have them afraid, but she knew that wasn’t true. She didn’t want them to have to fear, even though they should, and she did almost crave their pity. If one of them were to rush forward and save her… but that would not happen. One of their own, they might try to rescue, but not a stranger. She wasn’t worth the risk.

She was going to die. The Wolf would probably never know what had happened to her.

That, more than anything else, was what made her eyes prick with sudden tears.

The man brought her to the very edge of town and stopped. His hand was on the butt of his gun, and Molly braced herself. She would stand firm. She wouldn’t look away. She would die in a way she could be proud of, even if she wasn’t able to be proud of it for very long.

“You damn fool,” the man began, but Molly didn’t hear another word. Her heart was racing and blood pumping in her ears because the man was speaking English and _she knew that voice_. She knew better than to say his name aloud, but she knew him, and it was all she could do not to burst into tears or fling her arms about him in an embrace. He was alive. Hemlock was alive.

How could she not have recognized him? Now that she looked up at him and knew him, that was all she could see. His changeable eyes, now gray but that could all too easily become blue or green depending on the light and whether he wore that navy scarf; those cheekbones sharp enough any woman could slice herself open on them; that sarcastic, sardonic mouth, the same one she had so often daydreamed about kissing until they both were senseless. Hemlock. _Hemlock._

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

Molly took a deep breath, and Hemlock frowned. “You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?”

“No,” she admitted, and smiled. She wasn’t about to let her guard down to laugh, but she could beam up at him, and she saw a hint of a smile on his face. “I’m sure you’ll tell it all to me again at some point, though.”

“I’ve already forgotten it,” he said. “It wasn’t important any longer.”

“Really? But I thought you quite liked telling people off for being damn fools.”

He really was smiling then, and Molly laughed a little, hoping he might not notice the tears in her eyes. He probably did, but then, the man noticed everything. He had probably stashed that knowledge somewhere deep, to bring back for nefarious purposes. What those might be, she didn’t know, but she would hear about this again, or someone would.

“You had better be able to clear your eyes away yourself,” Hemlock said. “I haven’t a handkerchief.”

Or he would say something like that. Every now and then, Molly was forced to wonder just what she saw in the man. (What she had seen, rather. Now that the first wave of emotion was fading, she found she wasn’t quite so keen on weeping over him as she had been a few seconds ago.) “I can look after myself well enough,” she said.

“So I can tell. You could stand to do a bit better, though. You’re late.”

“Through no fault of my own. Asphodel’s dead.”

The bit of color in Hemlock’s face drained away, but there was no hint of emotion in his eyes. There might have been -- Molly liked to think she had seen something there -- but it was gone before she could really register it. “How?”

“The plane crashed. I don’t remember much of it.”

“But you walked away.”

“Barely.”

“And made it all the way across France on your own.” 

She would have once craved that admiration in his voice. Even now, she felt something inside her fluttering at the sound of it. Her heart, maybe, but she couldn’t be certain. “I can tell you the whole story later. We ought to get you out of here.”

Hemlock raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a plan?”

No. “Yes.”

“Liar.”

There wasn’t enough time to argue with him, even if she could have done so convincingly. A bit of movement behind Hemlock caught Molly’s eye, and she realized someone had been following them. Who, she didn’t know, but they were watching carefully, and she wondered who they were watching for. There wasn’t much they could have seen beyond all they hadn’t seen. They hadn’t seen Hemlock shoot her, and if they were watching for the Germans… “Did you have a plan when you pulled me out of there?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“You can’t keep secrets from me,” Hemlock said, his voice just as low but the words coming out quickly. “I saw you glance behind me and saw how quickly you looked back up at me. You’re not watching my face, though. Your gaze is just a bit beyond me, which means there’s someone standing behind me. Who is it?”

She was tempted to thank him for at least explaining what he had seen her do instead of leaping ahead to asking what she had seen, but there was no time. They could both be sarcastic with one another later. “Someone’s behind you.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. A man.”

“You know more than that. Look at his clothing, his stance. How is he watching us?”

“He…”

Molly hadn’t the chance to explain to Hemlock what she had seen, and he didn’t have a chance to berate her for trailing off. The man started forward at a run, and Molly saw a glint of metal reflected in the sunlight. Her body must have understood what that meant before her mind did, for she grabbed Hemlock’s arm and pulled him away, stepping back as well herself. She had just realized she wasn’t about to die after all and might well get back to England in one piece. She had no intention of being stabbed before that could happen.

“Stop,” Molly said, slipping back into French without thinking. “This isn’t what you think.”

“You’re not a spy?”

“Not for the Germans.”

The man looked from her to Hemlock, eyes narrowing, and something within her finally caught up to what he must have been thinking. A young woman, stealing away with a German soldier, and the two of them standing around talking rather than him shooting her or delivering her to someone surely would look suspicious, and she knew she would have come to the same conclusion. He might not even have realized they were speaking English.

“I’m here to help France,” she said.

That relaxed the man a little, though he still kept his knife pointed to Hemlock. “And him?”

“He saved my life.”

That must have been enough, thank goodness, for the man started to lower his knife. He did it slowly, and as soon as his arm was relaxed, Hemlock drew his gun and fired.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first fanfic since college! I'm super excited to be getting back into AUs and am eager to share my researched-over-my-lunch-break history with you. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Want some random stuff? Check me out at jehanetteprouvaire.tumblr.com if you want to see stuff probably not related to Sherlock but hopefully still enjoyable.)


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